


the act of making noise

by suspendrs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Famous!Louis, I blame Hozier, M/M, Nonsense, Not Famous!Harry, idk - Freeform, ski lodge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:31:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspendrs/pseuds/suspendrs
Summary: “Oh,” Harry frowns, waving him off. “No, I could never. I respect myself too much to sing for a living.”It feels like a slap across the face, but Louis does his best not to stiffen, blinking once and then frowning. “What?”“Those people are always so miserable, you know?” Harry says, hopping down off his stool and straightening his sweater. “There’s so much pressure on them, and they have to work so hard to keep up appearances, I can’t even imagine how difficult that is. I can’t even stand to listen to pop music today, let alone watch TV or read the magazines. It makes me so sad, thinking that those people, you know, the ones who actually went into it with heart, they only ever just wanted to make music and instead they got turned into things on leashes being paraded around to make money for other people,” he says. “Anyway, you can have the stool.”Or, Louis's famous, Harry has no idea who he is, and they get snowed in together at a ski lodge in Vermont.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \--DO NOT REPOST--
> 
> i started writing this the night after i saw Hozier live and idk what this is about or where it came from but here take it
> 
> title is from To Noise Making (Sing)

Closing the car door feels like the smooth chop of an ax severing the shackle around Louis’s ankle that keeps him connected to the outside world. Behind tinted windows he can melt into the heated leather cushion of the backseat and, once he’s shoved his headphones in his ears, nothing exists except the gentle sway of the car taking him away from the chaos of being Mr. Louis Tomlinson.

It’s not that he doesn’t love his fans; they’re amazing, they’ve made all of his dreams come true and then some, and he knows that he asked for everything that’s happened since he started posting those dumb videos online when he was 16. It’s just that so many _other_ things have happened, so many things he _didn’t_ ask for, sometimes he feels like more of a show pony than a person and it gets hard to remember sometimes why he asked for any of this at all.

It’s nearly the end of promo season, finally, which means less sitting in stuffy radio stations talking about what vegetables he does and doesn’t hate and more music making, more seeing the world, more closing his eyes in front of a room full of people and listening to his own words sung back to him by a chorus of people who need him as much as he needs them. A couple more boring interviews, and then he’s free as a bird to go and make a little noise for the world.

He’s flying out of London in a few hours to finish up the last of his promo before his first tour date in LA, and though usually he hates nothing more than a 12 hour flight, right now he’s quite looking forward to it. It feels like it’s been forever since he’s had some time to be alone with himself, and even though his album only just came out last week, he’s been itching to get his hands back on his notebook and write some more. It’s been a while since he was properly inspired, since he had something even remotely new to write about, but he’s good at what he does, can pull lyrics out of just about anywhere and turn them into chart toppers. He’s hoping tour will bring about some new inspirations so he can stop writing over and over about the same tired pain, and at this point, he’s open to emotion in any shape and color to replace the dull weight of boredom that sits deep in his chest.

It feels like the entire world has got its eye on him, like every move he makes needs to be calculated and purposeful, lest the universe discover he’s a fraud. His public persona got to dump his make believe girlfriend about a month ago, but the soul inside the puppet has been lonely all the time. He despises the strings tied around his wrists and ankles and the faceless monsters who tug them every which way, longs for the day they grant him just enough slack to reach for a knife and cut himself free.

He fishes his notebook out of the backpack at his feet to jot the thought down, though he knows it’s never going to get used. His management would never let him sing such a blatant jab at them, much less release it for the world to hear. He is calculated and purposeful, each word weighed carefully, because if the scale tips too far in any direction, it’ll all end just as quickly as it started. To be honest, he isn’t sure if that’d be the worst thing in the world.

His bags are already packed for tour, at the gracious hand of his assistant. She’s new, new to all of it, and she’s still bright-eyed and eager to do whatever Louis says, as if Louis’s got any authority at all. Now that Eleanor’s gone and Louis’s without a fake public girlfriend, he’s sure there’ll be articles out within the week that Louis’s fucking his new assistant instead. Poor thing, Louis thinks. He doesn’t even know her name.

It’s only a matter of packing his bags into the car when he’s delivered home before they’re off again, to the airport this time. He won’t see London for months; his sister will be living in his house while he’s gone to feed his dog and water the one plant he’s been barely trying to keep alive since he moved in. He’ll come back before the European leg of his tour, but even then, he isn’t planning to stay long. That house isn’t home, not really, but then again, what is? His life is such a whirlwind of moving and shaking and holding his breath, he doubts he’s ever felt at home since he left his mother’s womb.

The only things in his carry on when he boards the plane to LA are his notebook, a pen he stole a while back from his dentist, and a pair of noise cancelling headphones for when he’s ready to knock out for a while. He’s got a little pod in first class all to himself, and as soon as the plane’s in the air, he sinks down low enough that the tiny wall blocks him from everything else, and promptly falls asleep with his notebook in his lap.

-

He wakes up to the most god awful jolting he’s ever experienced. He nearly gets tossed clean out of his seat, but he scrambles to sit up, securing his seat belt around his waist as he becomes aware of the voice over the speakers.

“-bit of unexpected turbulence,” the voice is saying, far too calm for the way the plane feels as though it’s flying through a hailstorm. “We’ll be making an emergency landing in Vermont just to be safe, until we can be sure we’re alright to resume our flight to Los Angeles. Again, on behalf of British Airways, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Louis sighs, glancing over his shoulder at his manager, who looks absolutely livid, already tapping away on his phone. Louis just melts into his seat and waits for it to be over, holding his breath until the wheels of the plane make raucous contact with the Earth.

“Fucking fantastic,” Louis’s manger says, as they’re being shepherded off of the plane. “We have to be in LA by morning, what the hell are we going to do? Where are we?”

“Vermont,” Louis’s assistant says, like she thinks she’s actually being helpful.

“Fucking _Vermont_? Where the hell even _is_ Vermont?” Louis’s manager says.

“It’s near New York,” Louis’s assistant says. “Just south of Montreal-”

“Thank you, Sarah,” Louis’s manager cuts her off, annoyed. _Sarah_ , Louis thinks triumphantly.

“My name isn’t Sarah,” Louis’s assistant frowns. _Fuck_ , Louis thinks.

It’s storming something fierce outside, Louis can hear it before they’ve even gotten through the jet bridge. There’s no wonder they had to land, he thinks, once he gets inside the terminal and looks out through the window. It’s raining so hard he can’t even see the plane they just got off of, he reckons it’s miraculous they managed to land at all.

“We’re going to have to find somewhere to stay,” Louis’s manager says. “There’s no way this plane is getting off the ground before morning. _Fuck_. Shannon, find us a hotel nearby.”

 _Shannon_! Louis thinks, glancing over at his assistant.

“Not my fucking name,” she mutters, but she doesn’t argue, turning her back and tapping away on her phone.

Louis doesn’t bother getting involved, wandering over to the window to sit down and watch the rain. There’s something so refreshing about a storm, he’s always thought so, something about the way the rain washes down over everything, doesn’t give a shit as to what it is interrupting, who it is inconveniencing. The rain is the one thing that’s been a constant in Louis’s life, the one thing that’s never treated him differently for his success. He spends way too much time thinking, he thinks.

“We’re literally in the middle of nowhere,” Sarah/Shannon/whoever says, reappearing after a few minutes with her phone in hand. “All I can find is some little ski lodge a few miles away.”

“Well, book it,” Louis’s manager sighs. “Looks like we haven’t got another option.”

Louis begrudgingly drags himself away from the window, following his little team of annoyed professionals through the terminal and down to the baggage claim. He stays silent as they collect their things and pile into a car that someone called and then they’re off, rain pelting down so hard on the roof Louis thinks it might break through.

“Welcome to South Burlington!” the driver says, entirely too friendly for the collective mood of Louis’s team. “What brings you here?”

“The storm, mostly,” Louis’s manager huffs. “Any idea when it’s gonna let up?”

“No idea,” the driver says. “It’s a Nor’easter, could last until the end of the week.”

“Do you not have weather forecasts?” Louis’s manager asks. “Did we land in fucking 1835?”

The driver doesn’t say anything for a moment, perplexed, and then glances at Louis in the rearview mirror. “Where’d you come from?”

“London,” Louis’s manager says, before Louis can say anything at all. “And we need to be in LA by 9 o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“LA?” the driver asks. “Like, California?”

“Is there another LA?” Louis’s manager scoffs.

“That’s a long way away,” the driver says. “I don’t think you’ll make it in time.”

“Shit, really?” Louis’s manager says. “Here I thought we’d make it with time to spare.”

“Nah,” the driver says, unphased, apparently, by Louis’s manager’s tone. “Lucky you found Styles Lodge, though, if you’ve gotta stay around here until the storm lets up. Usually they don’t have any availability on such short notice, but they’re just about empty this week, since everyone’s staying home and bracing for the snow.”

“Snow?” Louis’s manager says. “What did you just say?”

“Yeah,” the driver says. “All this rain’s supposed to turn to snow at some point tonight, and then it’s gonna snow all day tomorrow and probably the next day, as well. Weather guy said it’s probably gonna be at least a foot in total,” he shrugs.

“Fuck,” Louis’s manager says, rubbing at his face. “We’re fucked.”

“Not to worry, the Styles family will take great care of you,” the driver says. “Come to think of it, they’re English as well. Speak with the same funny accent you do.”

“What Englishman in his right mind would find himself here by choice?” Louis’s manager grumbles, glaring out the window for a while.

Louis, for one, couldn’t care less about the storm, excited at the prospect of getting to skip his last week of promo bullshit, or at least a portion of it. He’s sure that getting snowed in at a ski lodge means they won’t be getting to LA anytime within the next few days, which means ample time to relax and do absolutely nothing before tour starts. He probably shouldn’t be as enthralled by that idea as he is, but free time is a luxury he hasn’t gotten much of at all in the past few years, so he’ll take it when he can get it.

The ski lodge is exactly as quaint and beautiful as anyone could have hoped when they finally pull up in front of it, though Louis’s absolutely sure he’s the only one appreciating it for what it is at the moment. Even in the pouring rain, the place still looks warm and sweet, not at all like the decrepit, haunted place Louis had kind of been expecting. There’s smoke billowing out of a chimney at the center of the roof and all the lights in the main entrance of the building are glowing golden bright inside the windows, like something out of a film.

The walk from the car to the front door takes less than 30 seconds but Louis is absolutely drenched by the time he gets inside, the rain freezing him right to his core. He’s the first one inside, naturally; he’s famous, he doesn’t carry his own bags, or at least that’s what he’s been told every day since he was 18.

“Oh, you poor dear,” the woman behind the front desk says, rushing over to pull him away from the door. “Come in by the fire, you’ll catch your death.”

Louis just shivers, uneasy, waiting by the fire while everyone else hauls all of their bags inside. Louis’s assistant takes it upon herself to get them all checked in and ready to go, so Louis decides to have himself a bit of a wander around the lobby, looking at all of the framed photos and newspaper clippings around the room. There are a lot of photos of the woman behind the front desk and who Louis assumes are her husband and children, but also a lot of photos of other random people, old photographs of people skiing, aged newspaper articles about the lodge. It’s charming, Louis thinks, all the history preserved in this place, and suddenly he feels quite bad about dripping all over the carpet.

The hand on his shoulder makes him jump, but he turns around to find the woman from the front desk smiling up at him cheerily. “Here’s your room key, dear,” she says, pressing it sweetly into his hand. Louis looks up at his manager, startled; it’s been years since anyone addressed him directly like this, especially with his manager in the room. It almost feels too intimate to be acceptable, but his manager is still too busy huffing and puffing and pacing around to get service on his phone, so Louis just turns his attention back to the woman who’s still just grinning at him, unphased. “My name is Anne,” she says, “let me know if you need anything at all. We’ll be serving dinner in the dining room in about an hour.”

Louis nods, still a little bit stunned, and Anne turns away without a care in the world to saunter back to the front desk. The rest of Louis’s team is still annoyed and distracted, effectively ruining the cozy atmosphere of the lodge, so Louis glances down at the heavy key in his hand and wanders off down the hallway.

He’s in room 8, which is nearly at the end of the hallway, but he finds it with no trouble and pushes inside quietly. He flicks on the lights as the door falls shut behind him, finding a queen sized bed, two small bedside tables with small, antique-looking lamps on top of them, and an old, weathered desk with a little wooden chair pushed up against the wall. The window is covered with a sheer, lacey curtain, and Louis shuffles directly over to pull it open, jaw dropping at the view.

Even in the rain, with the mostly set sun casting very little light over it, the view is amazing. The lodge is sitting right up against a steep drop in elevation, like the entire world just falls away right outside. It’s raining too hard to tell properly, but Louis’s sure that on a clear day, he’d be able to see for miles, would be able to follow the smattering of pine trees right up into the mountainside. It’s gorgeous, even in grayscale and blurred by the weather, and suddenly Louis longs to see it in summer, when the trees are full of leaves and the mountain is all painted green.

Someone pounds at his door, and Louis thinks about ignoring it, but he barely gets time to entertain the idea before they pound again. He shuffles over to pull the door open, finding his assistant waiting in the hallway with his things.

“Figured you’d want these,” she says sweetly, like she wasn’t trying to break his door down a moment ago. “Dinner’s at 8, and don’t miss it, because there’s no way anyone’s going out in this shit to get more food.”

Louis just nods, taking his duffle and his rolling suitcase from his assistant’s hands and closing the door without another thought. He leaves everything just inside the doorway and wanders over to flop down on the bed, slowly becoming aware of the dull throbbing just behind his eyes that, now that he’s thinking about it, has been there since he woke up on the plane.

He thinks about popping a few pills and skipping dinner altogether in favor of getting a few more hours of sleep, but he is quite hungry, and whatever-her-name-is was right, there’s no way he’s going to be able to convince someone to run out and grab him a Big Mac later. He ends up just sort of staring at the ceiling for the next hour, and then some, and only when the ancient-looking alarm clock on the bedside table tells him it’s 8:25 does he peel himself off the drooping mattress and head off in search of the dining room.

His entire team is already sitting around a table when he finds them, all at various stages of their meal. Dinner is set up buffet style, so Louis grabs a plate and piles it high with roast chicken and mashed potatoes before he makes his way to the last empty chair at the table and tucks in.

“Right,” Louis’s manager says pointedly, “now that we’re all here, let’s discuss our game plan. Tomorrow morning, we need to find a car service, or something, that’ll take us to whichever airport is closest that isn’t being affected by the storm, and we’ll damage control from there.”

“You’ll never find a car service that’ll chance traveling in this weather,” says an unfamiliar voice. He’s English, speaks with the same sort of drawl as the woman at the front desk, and suddenly Louis becomes aware of the man sitting up on a stool in the corner of the dining room, guitar in his lap. He’s strumming lightly, like background music, not looking up when he speaks again. “It wouldn’t be worth it, anyway. You’d have to go all the way to Boston, maybe even further south, before you find a single flight that isn’t grounded for the next two days, at least. You’d be better off just staying put and waiting it out.”

“Thanks, guy-who’s-opinion-I-didn’t-ask,” Louis’s manager says, rolling his eyes. “Right, then. Maybe we’ll just adjust the interviews for the next few days, see if they’ll do phone interviews instead?”

“Phone service is shit out here,” guitar-guy says, finally glancing up from where his fingers are dancing over the frets. “‘Specially during a storm.”

Louis smiles a little, looking down at the table when guitar-guy’s eyes fall on him. His manager huffs and goes off on another tangent, but Louis doesn’t bother listening, tuning into the quiet sound of guitar-guy’s music instead. 

He looks familiar, like the boy from some of the family photos in the lodge, so Louis assumes he’s one of Anne’s children, though he looks much older now than he did in any of those photos. He’s in his twenties, at least, with messy, curly hair that sprouts from his head like wild grass, and his fingers are long and clumsy on the strings of his guitar.

He’s self-taught, by the look of it; his posture is horrible, for one thing, and his fingers curve like talons over the same four basic chords, but somehow he still plays beautifully, even with his guitar a touch out of tune. Louis doesn’t listen to a single word anyone from his team says for the rest of dinner, eyes stuck on the pretty boy in the corner with his beat up, faded black guitar, loose knit sweater hanging stretched over his shoulders and chest.

Louis eats most of what’s on his plate and then gets up, leaving the boring industry talk behind at the table and letting himself follow the music instead. He walks right up to guitar-guy’s stool, amused by the way the boy pretends not to notice him.

“You play well,” Louis says. He sounds exhausted to his own ears, and guitar-guy must notice it, too, because he looks up quickly, eyes searching Louis’s own.

“Thanks,” he says, fingers stuttering out a few sour notes before he regains his focus. “Taught myself.”

“Yeah, me too,” Louis says. “Years ago, though, and then I got proper training when I- well, you know,” he shrugs, but guitar-guy doesn’t really seem to know at all.

“Right,” he says. “You’re English. Where are you from?”

“London,” Louis says. “Doncaster, originally, but I haven’t properly lived there in years.”

“Cheshire,” guitar-guy says. “Haven’t properly lived there since I was about 13, though,” he mutters, frowning at his hands as they fumble along the strings again. “You play?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Not very well, but enough to look like I do. Same with piano; just memorized a couple chords, now everyone thinks I’m a musical genius,” he jokes.

“That so?” guitar-guy smirks, looking up at him again. 

“‘S what I’ve been told,” Louis says, smiling shyly. “I’m Louis.”

“Harry,” guitar-guy says, fingers slowing to a stop before curling around the neck of the guitar, angling it toward Louis. “Wanna play something, musical genius?”

“Huh,” Louis says, taking the guitar from Harry and sitting down gingerly on the floor, holding it in his lap and strumming once. He fiddles with the knobs for a moment, humming under his breath until he’s got the guitar properly tuned, and then begins to play.

The rest of the dining room falls away in waves and crescendos until it’s just Louis and Harry’s guitar, the sound of the rain on the roof like a far away drum. He closes his eyes and lets muscle memory take over, fingers moving like a well choreographed team over the notes he’s played a hundred times, maybe a thousand, over and over and over again in rehearsals.

“Wow,” Harry says, bringing Louis swirling back into his body. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” Louis says softly, not daring to look up from the strings. “Reckon I ought to be.”

“Oh?” Harry says, frowning when Louis glances up. “Cocky.”

“Oh, I-” Louis frowns, caught off guard. 

He hasn’t met a person in years who didn’t already know who he was, hasn’t ever had to explain to someone what he does for a living. This boy, though, with his big doe eyes and the unimpressed tilt to his mouth, he has no idea who Louis is, and the notion is so much more comforting than Louis ever thought it would be.

“I’ve been playing for years, is all,” Louis says, handing the guitar back over. “Had professional training and all that, worked really hard. I ought to be good, or that’s a lot of time wasted,” he says.

“I’m teasing,” Harry says, lips finally pulling up into a smile. “You deserve to be cocky. You’re properly amazing.”

“Oh,” Louis says, grinning. “Thanks.”

That word, _amazing_ , it’s sort of lost its impact after all these years. He’s been called amazing a million times by a million different people, has had that word slapped on things he’s not even really that proud of, he’s kind of tired of it, kind of over it. Somehow, though, hearing Harry say it makes it feel new again, makes it feel meaningful, for some reason, in a way it hasn’t from so many other pairs of more qualified lips.

“Maybe you could teach me a couple tricks,” Harry says, “you know, since you’re gonna be stuck here a few days.”

“Yeah,” Louis says quickly, smiling a little wider. “I’d like to.”

“Do you sing?” Harry asks, already focusing back on his guitar. “Mum says I’ve got a great voice, but I don’t know if she’s the best judge.”

“I sing, yeah,” Louis says. “You know, sometimes.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Harry says cheekily, grinning up at him from under his hair. 

“Oh, um,” Louis panics, turning quickly to look back at the table. He’s pretty sure Harry’s flirting, or at least acting flirty, and Louis’s about ready to be whipped like a show horse with a toe out of line for even being near another guy when there’s no hired girl around to stick her hand in his back pocket and remind him who he’s supposed to be. Everyone else is gone, though, the table is empty, and he and Harry are the only ones left in the dining room. He’s alone with Harry, who has no idea who he is, and he wants to flirt anyway, and Louis, at the end of the day, is just a helpless, hopeless gay.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, sensing his unease. “You don’t have to. I was playing.”

“No!” Louis says quickly, turning back to him. “I mean, no, it’s okay. You can- yeah, you can play for me, if you want.”

“And you’ll play something after?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Louis says. “Whatever.”

Harry smiles, cheeks pinking just a little bit as he adjusts himself on his stool, self conscious. Louis smiles to put him at ease, leaning back on his hands, and Harry takes a deep breath before he starts playing.

His voice is deep and gorgeous, unrefined but still absolutely beautiful in all its natural strength. He plays some old song, some folky jazzy something that Louis’s sure his mum used to listen to when he was young. He does it so well, though, knows his way around his own voice like it’s something he’s been exploring his entire life, and Louis can’t help but clap when he’s finished.

“Holy shit,” Louis says, grinning up at him. “You’re, like, _properly_ talented, mate.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, red as a strawberry in snow. “Your turn.”

“I’m serious,” Louis says, even as he accepts the guitar. “You could be, like, really successful.”

“Oh,” Harry frowns, waving him off. “No, I could never. I respect myself too much to sing for a living.”

It feels like a slap across the face, but Louis does his best not to stiffen, blinking once and then frowning. “What?”

“Those people are always so miserable, you know?” Harry says, hopping down off his stool and straightening his sweater. “There’s so much pressure on them, and they have to work so hard to keep up appearances, I can’t even imagine how difficult that is. I can’t even stand to listen to pop music today, let alone watch TV or read the magazines. It makes me so sad, thinking that those people, you know, the ones who actually went into it with heart, they only ever just wanted to make music and instead they got turned into things on leashes being paraded around to make money for other people,” he says. “Anyway, you can have the stool.”

Louis feels like he’s picking himself up off the floor piece by piece, like Harry just fully dissected him and left him wide open right there on the dirty, forest green carpet of the dining room. He props himself up on the stool without a word and stares at the guitar for a moment, unsure suddenly of what it even is and how it got into his hands.

“What are you going to play?” Harry asks. 

“Uh,” Louis says, looking down at him for a moment. “Can I play you something new?”

“New?” Harry frowns. “New to who?”

“New to-” Louis frowns too, looking at the floor. “I don’t know. Just… new.”

“Did you write it?” Harry asks, confused.

“Yeah?” Louis says. “Is that- is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling softly. “I didn’t know you wrote songs.”

“You don’t know me,” Louis says, and Harry has no idea how much that means to him.

“Guess not,” Harry says. “Yeah, play me it.”

Louis nods, adjusting the guitar in his lap and taking a few more seconds to reel the rest of his brain cells into something functional. He plucks a few strings until he remembers how the song goes, and then he closes his eyes, letting the room fall away like he’s so used to doing.

He wrote this song ages ago, when he was still in the writing phase of the album. It’s his favorite of maybe anything he’s ever written, but the producers didn’t think so, so it didn’t even make it to the recording phase. It’s softer than the stuff he usually puts out, sweeter, and a little more melancholy, but it shows too much of the soul inside the sausage casing (Louis’s words, industry’s opinion), so it got axed.

He plays the whole song from memory, even though he hasn’t thought about it in months, with all the other things that have been on his mind. He forgets Harry is even watching him, forgets where he is entirely, until finally his fingers finish the very last riff and he’s got to peel his eyes back open to let the world pour back in.

Harry’s eyes are wet, and that’s the only thing Louis notices for a long moment. He slowly becomes aware of the fact that Harry’s clapping, and then that he’s standing up, taking the guitar out of Louis’s lap and tugging him off his stool to hug him.

“That,” Harry says, voice way too close to Louis’s ear, “was fucking _incredible_.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, hugging Harry back loosely. “I, um.”

“I’m, like, embarrassed I even played in front of you,” Harry says. “Shit, mate, if I had half of your talent-”

“Stop,” Louis says, pushing lightly at Harry’s chest. “You’re more talented than 90% of the people who won Grammys last year,” he says, smiling up at him.

Harry blushes, pushing his hair out of his face and smiling at the ground. “I’ve never written a song,” Harry says, meeting Louis’s eyes shyly. “Maybe I’ll give it a go.”

“I think you should,” Louis says. “If you can write half as well as you can sing, you’re golden.”

Harry just grins, leaning his guitar up against the wall and chewing on his lip when he looks up at Louis. “Maybe you could help me,” he shrugs, looking hopeful. “Wanna come up to my room and bounce some ideas around?”

Louis’s brain short circuits and he takes a step back, nearly tripping right over the stool behind him. He laughs awkwardly when Harry catches him, twirling away from him and scratching at his head. “I should probably go to bed,” he says, already backing toward the exit. “Jet lag, and all that. It’s, like, 3am in London time.”

“Oh,” Harry says, face falling. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, though?” Louis says, speeding up a little when hope perks back up in Harry’s eyes. He nearly trips over another chair, cursing himself silently as he tries to maintain eye contact while also trying to flee.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry says, watching him go, amused. “Breakfast is from 7-10,” he calls, once Louis is almost fully out of the room.

“Great!” Louis says, grinning. “I’ll see you then!” He turns just in time to walk face first into the door frame. He yelps and stumbles for a moment before taking off, speed walking all the way back to his room and locking himself inside. 

He’s an idiot. He’s a whole moron, cursing himself as he sheds his clothes and falls into bed. He doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him, why the invitation to Harry’s room sent him into an entire tailspin, but it’s probably the fact that Harry is so pretty, like, stupidly gorgeous, and Louis’s so gay he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He hasn’t so much as looked at a boy outside of the safety of his own laptop screen in the middle of the night since before even his first album came out, when he was first shoved deep into the closet and told to stay there until further notice. The longer it goes on, the less hope he has of being able to be out and proud someday, and to be honest, he thinks he might be a little too damaged after all of this to ever be proud anyway.

With that, he burrows under the covers and digs his face into the pillow, passing out before he has to deal with anything else.

-

He wakes up 20 minutes before breakfast is over, and he’s absolutely starving, so he throws on the same hoodie and pair of joggers from yesterday and runs all the way to the dining room in his socks. There’s only a few people still in here, some random guys from Louis’s team whose jobs he isn’t even really sure of, let alone their names, so Louis doesn’t pay them much mind, grabbing a plate from the buffet table and picking himself out a few mini muffins and a spoonful of scrambled eggs. 

He’s all but forgotten about last night until he sits down at a smaller table near the wall, and someone slides into the seat across from him. He looks up quickly, startled, and finds Harry smiling back at him, looking soft and a little bit anxious.

“Kinda thought you weren’t gonna show up,” Harry says, glancing at his watch. “You barely made it.”

“Overslept,” Louis says, shrugging one shoulder. “I think I slept, like, 10 hours straight. I haven’t had that much sleep in years,” he jokes.

“Well, good,” Harry says, losing a bit of the tension in his shoulders. “I was worried I freaked you out.”

Louis frowns through his mouthful of mini muffin, shaking his head. “How so?”

“You kinda ran last night after I invited you to my room,” Harry says, blushing a little. “I didn’t think- well, I mean, I guess I kinda assumed- but, I don’t know-”

“Assumed what?” Louis asks, fear prickling up his spine. There’s no way Harry assumed he was gay. Louis’s been through _professional training_ to make sure no one assumes that about him.

“I kinda thought we were flirting, is all,” Harry says. “Maybe I was just flirting so hard I confused myself,” he chuckles, blushing a little harder.

“Oh,” Louis says, glancing over Harry’s shoulder at the few people from his team milling about at the other end of the room. “I, uh. I don’t know what to say,” he admits, meeting Harry’s eyes again.

“Oh, you don’t have to say anything,” Harry says, the smile falling from his face. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry,” he says, his entire face pulling down into a frown.

“No, it’s okay,” Louis says. “I’m not uncomfortable, not at all. I’m just- a little- I don’t know. Out of my depth?” he says, pushing some eggs around his plate for a moment before shoving them in his mouth.

“I get it,” Harry says. “Well, I don’t, really. To be honest, I have no idea what’s going on here,” he says. 

Louis nods, staring down at the table. He doesn’t know what’s going on here, either, nor does he know what he should do next, but he knows he likes the way his chest feels warm when Harry looks at him, and that’s kinda all he’s got to work with, currently.

“Can I show you something?” Harry asks. “When you’re done eating?”

“Yeah?” Louis says, shoving the last bite of his muffin into his mouth and pushing his plate away. “What is it?”

Harry smiles, getting up and nodding for Louis to follow him. Louis does, shuffling along behind as Harry leads him out of the dining room and down the hallway in the opposite direction from the guest rooms, all the way down past the office and through a small door just before a set of stairs. Louis follows blindly until Harry steps out of the way, and Louis finds himself entering the most magical room he’s ever been in.

It’s a sun room of sorts, all glass from the walls to the ceiling, and the snow is whipping around outside like mad. It feels like they’re inside a snow globe, watching the blizzard from within, and Louis can’t help the way his jaw drops.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Harry says, plopping down on the sofa near the window and watching the snow through the ceiling. 

“It’s,” Louis says, shaking his head. “It’s like-”

“I know,” Harry grins, patting the cushion beside himself for Louis to come sit. “You don’t see snow like this in London, huh?”

“I’ve never seen snow like this in my life,” Louis says, sitting down beside Harry and staring straight through the window. “It doesn’t even look real.”

Harry hums, sitting back against the sofa quietly for a moment. Louis just keeps staring up, taking it all in, so distracted he jumps when Harry touches his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, looking rather serious when Louis meets his eye. 

“Yeah?” Louis frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “You got all fidgety and weird when I brought up flirting and you looked over at your friends like you were afraid of them hearing and I just- I wanna make sure you’re safe,” he says, watching Louis closely.

Louis is bamboozled for a second, trying to think of what the hell Harry is talking about. This only serves to make Harry look even more worried, so Louis shakes his head quickly and covers Harry’s hand with his own.

“I’m okay, really,” Louis says. “Things are, like, complicated, but all good.”

“Complicated how?” Harry asks. 

Louis holds his breath, studying Harry’s face for a moment. Harry really has no clue who he is, has absolutely no idea what kind of life he leads, and it’s the most refreshing interaction Louis’s had with a stranger in years. He isn’t quite ready to give that up, isn’t ready to sacrifice anonymity now that he’s got a sliver of it, so he just smiles, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says gently. Harry nods, slowly removing his hand from Louis’s shoulder, and Louis smiles as he relaxes back against the sofa. “Maybe I should go get my guitar,” he says after a moment, still watching the snow. “I’m feeling inspired.”

 

“You have your guitar with you?” Harry asks, perking up. “Where were you headed, anyway?”

“LA,” Louis says, his smile falling a little bit as he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing right now. 

“What were you gonna do out there?” Harry asks. “Are you trying to make it big?”

“No,” Louis scoffs, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “No, it’s like you said, who would want to be famous nowadays?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, so Louis leaves it, getting up quietly and slipping out the door to head back to his room for his guitar. He runs into his manager as he’s crossing through the lobby, though, and he checks to make sure Harry isn’t following him before his manager can ruin everything.

“That weird kid was right,” Louis’s manager says, looking tired and angry. “There’s no phone reception, there’s no way out of this place, and we’ve already missed your first radio interview with no warning,” he huffs. “You’re supposed to be on Ellen tomorrow afternoon, what the hell are we going to do?”

“We can reschedule,” Louis shrugs. “Tour doesn’t start until next week, anyway, so it’s not like we’re missing anything terribly important.”

“This is the _most_ important part!” his manager argues. “How are we meant to build your career if we don’t do any promo?”

“Maybe we’ve done enough promo,” Louis says. “Maybe this is a sign that we’re doing too much.”

“I think this is a sign that we’re not doing enough,” his manager says, pacing in a full circle and holding his phone up high, like that’ll give him any reception. “We need to figure this out, so don’t disappear.”

Louis disappears, wandering off the second his manager turns his back. He makes it all the way to his room and back through the lobby with his guitar and his notebook in hand before his manager has even noticed he’s gone, so he has no trouble getting back to the sun room unscathed.

Harry is right where he left him on the sofa, except now he’s got his guitar in his lap, meaning he went and procured it from somewhere while Louis was gone. Louis prays he didn’t hear anything that was said in the lobby, but nothing seems off when Louis sits down on the floor in front of the sofa and takes his guitar out of the case, so he supposes he’s safe.

“Wow,” Harry says, eyes falling on Louis’s guitar. “That’s really nice.”

“Thanks,” Louis grins, mindlessly tuning the guitar. “This one is one of my favorites. My mate got it for me back when I first- uh,” he cuts off, frowning when he remembers that Niall gave this to him right after Louis first got signed to a label.

“When you first what?” Harry frowns.

“When I first moved to London,” Louis says, not meeting Harry’s eyes. It’s not a total lie; Niall did give him this guitar as something as a housewarming gift, but it was more of a ‘congrats on the massive record deal’ gift than anything.

“Oh,” Harry says, appeased. “That’s sweet.”

Louis hums, strumming a few chords to make sure his guitar is well tuned before he flips his notebook open. “Right,” he says, looking up at Harry. “What’s our song about?”

“Uh,” Harry says, deer in the headlights. “Um. Snow?”

“Snow,” Louis says, jotting it down in his notebook. “What about it?”

“It’s,” Harry frowns, staring hard at the ground. “Cold?”

“And?” Louis prompts.

“And,” Harry looks panicked, glancing around the room. “And, white?”

Louis nods, scribbling in his notebook for a moment before sitting back and strumming his guitar. “My heart’s as heavy as snow on a glass roof, and twice as cold, my knuckles are white ‘round the wrist of an already departed soul,” he sings, working out the melody as he goes.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Harry says, looking genuinely distraught. “I said snow is cold and white and you did _that_?”

Louis laughs, shrugging one shoulder and jotting down a few more lines in his notebook. “That’s just where my mind went,” he says. “You do the next line.”

“Shit, fuck,” Harry breathes, squinting down at Louis’s notebook and then clumsily playing a rather flat G chord. “Um, ghosts, in the snow? Pine trees?” he squeaks out, face growing redder by the moment.

Louis grins, hunching over his notebook for a long moment. “Now you’re a ghost in the snow, lost in the frozen trees of a mind that refuses to let you go.”

“Alright, fuck you,” Harry says, all but throwing himself off of the sofa and onto the floor beside Louis to peer down at his notebook. “That’s not fucking fair!”

“It’s not that hard!” Louis says, reaching down to tear the page out of his notebook and handing it over to Harry. “Here, you keep working on this, and then you can play it for me after dinner,” he says, turning to put his guitar back in its case.

“Wait that’s all the mentoring I get?” Harry pouts, putting his own guitar down and resting the loose page on top of it. “Can I have a look at what else you’ve got? For inspiration?” he asks, making to reach for Louis’s notebook.

Louis snatches it away quickly, hugging it to his chest. Harry jumps, recoiling quickly, looking absolutely mortified.

“Sorry,” they say at the same time, the air between them suddenly tense, the wind still howling outside.

“Sorry,” Louis says again, relaxing a little and glancing down at his notebook. “It’s like- the contents of my heart, you know?” he says weakly, waving the notebook once. “I don’t let anyone touch it.”

“No, I get it,” Harry says quickly, smiling placatingly. “I shouldn’t have even asked. I don’t know what I was thinking-”

“It’s okay,” Louis says, slipping his notebook into the front pocket of his guitar case and zipping it closed. “I should get going. I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?” he says, standing up and backing toward the door.

“Yeah,” Harry says, staring down at the page Louis gave him, like it’ll either write itself or burst into flames. “See you.”

Louis somehow resists the urge to stay, letting himself out of the sunroom and dragging himself all the way back past the dining room and through the lobby. His manager is still frantically trying to make a phone call near the front door, so Louis just creeps by, heading back to his own room.

He’s making a huge mistake, probably; he knows this. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, doesn’t know what on Earth his plan is, but it just feels so good to be Nobody when he’s with Harry, as opposed to being Louis Tomlinson, Grammy award winning singer and songwriter and Cosmopolitan’s newly crowned bachelor of the month. He isn’t expecting this to last, isn’t expecting Harry to remain part of his life after the storm ends and they finally resume their journey to LA, and he’s sure Harry isn’t expecting any of that, either. It’s just flirting, playful banter, a way to pass the time, and it’s all fine.

He leaves his guitar in the corner and climbs back into bed and, despite the daylight leaking through curtains, sleeps the rest of the afternoon away.

-

He wakes up with plenty of time for dinner, so he decides to have shower and clean up a little, since he hasn’t done more than wash his face since he left London. He takes his time, forces his mind carefully blank and doesn’t think about Harry at all. 

When he finally makes his way down to the dining room, the first thing he notices is Harry on his stool in the corner, guitar in his lap. This must be his thing, Louis thinks, because he doesn’t even look up when Louis enters the room. It makes Louis feel a little more at ease while he makes himself a plate of food and goes to have a seat at the table where his assistant and a few of the techs are sitting, the company providing even more of a buffer between him and Harry.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Harry, or even that he’s actively avoiding him; it’s just that Louis’s been carefully rationing the quantity and intensity of his emotions for years now, and Harry has a way of knocking his meticulous piles into complete disarray, and the worst part is, Louis’s having a hard time convincing himself that he doesn’t like it.

Dinner is quiet, mostly because everyone else is still annoyed that they’re not in LA yet, until his manager arrives after about ten minutes, and sits down like he’s got an announcement to make. 

“Right, everyone,” he says, quite loudly. Louis sees Harry perk up a little in the corner, but he prays he isn’t listening, because he isn’t ready yet for Harry to figure out who he really is. “The snow is supposed to stop at some point early tomorrow, so we’ll be on the first flight to LA. I want everyone up and ready to go by 7am, because the second we can get out of here, we’ll head to the airport and find ourselves a flight. We should be able to salvage the last half of this week, but the first few interviews and appearances will have to be rescheduled, so we’ll have to figure that out, but getting the hell out of this place is our first priority,” he says.

Louis sighs privately, staring down at his food. He doesn’t want to leave. There’s something about this place that he finds really comforting, much more comforting than the stale, stiff hotel bed he’ll be sleeping in tomorrow night, and he isn’t quite ready to give this up.

He gets a plate of seconds just to have something to pick at, waiting for everyone else to leave so that he can be alone with Harry, because Harry keeps throwing him these little glances over his manager’s shoulder like he’s waiting to speak to him, but Louis’s absolutely not going to interact with him in front of anyone who might shout at him for it.

It takes until nearly 9:00 for his manager and assistant to finally call it a night, leaving Louis alone at the table with no one else between himself and Harry. Louis gives it another five minutes just to be safe before he gets up, weaving through the maze of little round tables until he gets to Harry’s corner.

“Hey,” Harry says, fingers going still on the guitar. The silence is startling, now that Harry’s gentle music isn’t filling up the empty spaces. “What was your friend going on about? Sounded serious.”

“Oh, nothing,” Louis says. “Just our updated schedule for the week.”

“Right,” Harry says. “And what are you up to, again?”

“Just work stuff,” Louis says, shrugging it off. “Boring stuff.”

“Right,” Harry says again. “So when are you leaving?”

“Uh,” Louis says. “I’m not really sure yet. Still kinda up in the air.”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking down at his guitar.

“How’s the song coming?” Louis asks, eager to change the subject. 

“Eh,” Harry shrugs. “It’s alright. Your lines are the best bits,” he says sheepishly.

“Play it for me?” Louis says, dragging a chair over from the nearest table. Harry looks down, silently waits for Louis to get settled, and then fumbles out a few chords.

He sings quietly, slowly, all clumsy fingers and confused notes. It’s not a very good song by any stretch of the imagination, lyrically or musically, but Harry still makes it sweet somehow, even with all of it’s poorly matched rhymes and uncoordinated beats.

Louis gives him a standing ovation the second the song ends, standing up and cheering loudly. Harry looks startled, but he laughs, blushing as he puts the guitar down. Louis keeps cheering, and Harry’s cheeks only get redder, so Louis decides he doesn’t really want to stop.

“Louis,” Harry says, laughing, embarrassed. “Stop. It’s not that good.”

“I loved it,” Louis says, backing away, still clapping, when Harry gets up off his stool. “It was amazing. Where’s the Grammy? Where’s the-”

“Stop!” Harry squeals, lunging at him playfully. Louis darts away, still hollering his praise, and Harry chases him around the empty dining room, weaving through the mess of tables and chairs in an effort to catch him or corner him. He’s shouting for Louis to shut up, but he’s still laughing, and Louis loves the sound of it so much he gets tripped up in it, and then gets tripped up in the legs of a chair, stumbling with a surprised yelp.

Harry finally catches him, just keeps him upright and then slams him back into the wall with the force of his momentum, ending up pressed right up against his chest. Louis doesn’t get even a second to process what’s happened before Harry’s kissing him, and suddenly everything is silent and completely deafening.

Louis pulls back so hard he hits his head off the wall, the dull pain almost enough to take his mind off of his lips, wet with Harry’s spit. “Fuck,” he says, staring wide eyed at Harry.

“Fuck,” Harry echos, but he makes no move to pull away. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, dropping his eyes to Harry’s chest and letting the panic consume him. Now he’s absolutely, royally fucked, if he wasn’t already. Harry has the power to ruin him, now, has the power to out him to the world, if he chooses, if he finds out who Louis is. He can never find out. Not that Louis had any plans of telling him, but now he absolutely, positively cannot tell him, unless he wants the whole world to come crashing down around him.

“Louis?” Harry’s saying, his worried voice breaking through the ringing in Louis’s ears.

Louis hasn’t kissed a boy in forever. Like, literally forever. He can’t even remember the last time, to be honest. Suddenly he doesn’t know if he’s ever kissed a boy, doesn’t know if he’s ever kissed anyone; all he knows is that Harry’s touching his face, now, trying to tilt his chin up.

Louis jerks away, looking up at Harry’s face again, spooked. Harry looks just as spooked, but also kind of sad, like he has any idea what Louis’s thinking.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry says, his voice so quiet Louis can barely hear him over all the noise in his head. “We can forget about this, pretend it never happened, it’s okay,” he says, backing away an inch.

Louis reaches for him without thinking, catching him by the hips. Harry freezes, watching him with his breath all stuck in his throat. Well, Louis thinks, he’s come this far, he might as well just keep going.

He leans up and kisses Harry, too hard, too sudden, too many teeth and not enough lips. He’s not very good at kissing, hasn’t had very much practice, but Harry doesn’t seem to care an ounce, pressing close and kissing him for all he’s worth. It feels so good, like putting the last piece of a puzzle in place, a piece that’s been lost under the sofa for years and years. It’s dusty, and a little bit faded and out of whack, but it fits like a dream, and everything finally feels good, connected and complete, and Louis’s definitely getting way too philosophical about a kiss. 

“Come to my room,” Harry says. He doesn’t pull away at all, speaks directly into Louis’s mouth, and Louis likes that a _lot_ , so he whimpers quietly back into Harry’s mouth and nods as best he can, knotting his hands in the bottom of Harry’s t-shirt and pulling him closer.

It takes them a few more minutes and a lot of fumbling and stumbling but eventually Harry wrenches himself away, grabbing Louis by the wrist and dragging him out of the dining room. It’s dark outside, and it’s pretty dark inside, too, which only heightens the rest of Louis’s senses as Harry drags him up the stairs behind the sun room and down to the end of the hallway, locking the door behind them with a very definitive sounding click, and that, for a very long while, is that.

-

Louis wakes up the following morning to Harry touching his face gently, whispering his name. It’s still dark out, and Louis’s completely naked between Harry’s sheets, his face smushed into Harry’s pillow. He picks his head up quickly, brain taking a moment to catch up, but Harry touches his neck gingerly and hushes him.

“Your manager is looking for you,” Harry breathes, brushing his fingers softly through Louis’s hair. It feels good, so Louis puts his head back down on the pillow and lets his eyes fall shut.

“Tell him I’ve run away,” he mutters, heart set on going back to sleep.

Harry laughs, but it sounds a little sad, a little unsure, so Louis cracks his eye open again. “No, I,” Harry hesitates, looking down. “I think you should go.”

Louis blinks, his senses finally arriving to him like a brick fucking wall. He sits up, blood flushing cold through his entire body. “Harry-”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “I mean, it’s not, but, it is, I don’t know. I guess you didn’t have to tell me, but-”

“I can explain,” Louis says, on the verge of tears for absolutely no reason.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Harry chuckles quietly, still not meeting Louis’s eye. “I thought he was having a laugh when he told me, but then he acted like I was mad for not knowing. So I googled you, and…”

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, rubbing harshly at his eyes. “Harry-”

“I just,” Harry shrugs, blinking fast. “I mean- why didn’t you tell me? Like, you let me go on and on about how daft famous people are,” he says, blushing faintly.

“I didn’t tell you,” Louis says, “because- because…” he trails off, unsure suddenly. “Because…”

“Because?” Harry prompts.

“You were, I don’t know,” Louis huffs, still rubbing at his face. “You were different. You didn’t already know me. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had to introduce myself to someone? Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve met someone that didn’t already have an opinion of me?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he draws his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard.

“You liked me,” Louis says. “I knew it from the first time I talked to you. You _liked_ me, you liked _me_ , and that’s- fuck,” he mutters, pulling Harry’s sheets up to hide his face.

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

“It wasn’t fair to do you, I know,” Louis says. “It was just… it was so nice,” he says, staying put for a moment longer before he finally drops the sheets, rolling away from Harry and getting up out of the bed.

“I won’t, like, tell anyone,” Harry says. “I looked at your Wikipedia page long enough to know better.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, pulling on his clothes. He’s mortified, so embarrassed he thinks he could catch if he stood near an open flame. He’s got feelings so deep and heavy he doesn’t even think his notebook could handle them, and he’s kind of ready to just go and get on the road and stop thinking for a little while.

“So is this, like, it?” Harry says. He’s standing now, when Louis turns to look at him, instead of kneeling beside the bed. “You’re just gonna go carry on with your life? And what am I, just another boy you’ll forget about in a few, what, weeks? Days? Hours?” It sounds like it’s taking all the courage in Harry’s body to get the words out, so Louis finds it within himself to not get mad, pulling his hoodie down over his body and walking right over to where Harry’s stood. Harry flinches a little, steps back, and Louis lets him, though he feels every inch of space between them like a grip around his throat.

“No,” he says. “You’re- you’re not just another boy,” he admits, talking to Harry’s chest. “You’re not _another_ boy at all. I don’t do this, I don’t go around fucking people and making them sign NDAs after. I’ve been locked in the closet with a contract binding my wrists and ankles since I was 18, made to fear that part of myself, to hide it if I wanted a career. I haven’t so much as looked at another boy since I put my first single out. I haven’t so much as _thought_ about boys in years. You just happened to be the first person who made me feel safe, who made me feel heard, and understood, and respected for all the things I get paid to hide. I guess I was selfish, I wanted to keep that feeling, but I should have known I wasn’t allowed to,” he says, backing away one step, and then another, and another. “So, sorry for dragging you into it. And thank you for everything,” he says, voice so quiet it barely reaches his own ears. He turns to go before he can do something silly like cry or scream or throw himself out the window, but Harry rushes to block his path to the door, dragging him into his arms and holding him tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds like he’s crying, or maybe like he’s about to cry, and he buries his face in Louis’s neck. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis hugs him back, presses his face in his chest and lets himself be held. It feels too good, and he wants to keep it so, so bad, so he pulls away and schools his face into the carefully blank expression he learned in media training for when he gets uncomfortable in interviews.

“It was nice to meet you,” he says, not daring to look Harry in the eyes.

With that, he goes, letting himself silently out of the room and finding his way down the stairs and back to the corridor with the sun room, sneaking down and out into the lobby, where everyone is waiting.

“Louis, Jesus,” his manager says, looking livid. “Where have you been? Where are your things?”

“In my room, sorry,” Louis says, ducking his head and running down the opposite corridor to grab his bags. He doesn’t think very much on his way back to the lobby, doesn’t even bother to focus his eyes, lest he see something that reminds him of what he just left upstairs, sad and lonely in his bedroom.

They leave in a flurry, piling into the van that’s waiting for them out in front of the lodge. It’s not snowing anymore, but the snow piled up on the ground is ridiculous, like nothing Louis’s ever seen before. 

He’s in the way back, smushed up between his sound tech and the window, and he closes his eyes as the van splutters to life and starts slipping over the packed down snow toward the road. He didn’t get very much sleep last night, and it’s still only the ass crack of dawn, so he thinks a few minutes of sleep on the way to the airport are incredibly well deserved.

Someone bangs loudly on the window just beside his head, and he jumps nearly into his sound tech’s lap, trying to squint out the window at whoever it is that’s waving for the van to come to a screeching stop again. His assistant rolls down her window from the row in front of Louis, and then Harry appears, looking wild and scared.

“Sorry,” Harry says, panting a little. He makes direct eye contact with Louis and then shoves something through the window at him. “You forgot this,” he says, but he doesn’t let go of whatever it is until Louis pries it out of his fingers. 

The van starts moving again the second Harry takes his arm out of the window, and Louis uses every bit of his strength to not turn around and watch Harry fade into the distance. He doesn’t even look at what’s in his hand until they’re pulling up to the airport, and finally he holds all his breath in his lungs and unfolds his hand.

It’s a piece of paper, crumpled up small, but the thin black lines and slightly yellowish color looks all to familiar. He unfolds it carefully, smoothing it over his knee, and finds the song he and Harry wrote, Harry’s messy handwriting taking up most of the page. He turns it over slowly, just to make sure he isn’t missing anything, but there’s something scribbled in big print over the back of the page. He glances around to make sure no one is watching and then looks closer, making out the letters through all the creases in the paper.

_I bought a ticket to your Boston show. Maybe you could score me a backstage pass? Xxx Harry_

There’s a phone number written in giant blocks below the message, and Louis can’t help but smile, folding the paper up carefully and putting it in his pocket. He doesn’t stop thinking about it all morning, until they’re waiting to board the plane, and finally he pulls the paper out again and taps the number into a new text.

_Louis: careful, you’re starting to seem like a groupie xx_

_Harry: Maybe I should be a groupie. I already miss you, I can’t wait 3 weeks :(_

The reply is instantaneous, like Harry was waiting around for it. Louis thinks of him, curled up in the sun room at the lodge, wrapped in a blanket with a hot cup of tea in his lap, phone beside him on the sofa with the ringer all the way up. It makes him smile, makes his heart feel all warm and fuzzy like TV static, like a fuse shorting out. 

He shoves his phone in his back pocket and hands his boarding pass to the woman at the terminal, hoists his backpack up on his shoulder, and boards the plane.


	2. Chapter 2

Whenever Louis is asked in interviews which parts of America he enjoys seeing most he scrambles for answers, spouting out the biggest attraction from whichever state he was in last; the Grand Canyon in Arizona, the Space Needle in Seattle, the Statue of Liberty in New York. He doesn’t think he’s allowed to say that his favorite thing to see is the back of his own eyelids, or that all he’s ever really seen of America is LA and the blur of the road outside the window of the bus, and he’s _definitely_ not allowed to say that the only thing in America he terribly cares to see again is a certain green eyed boy from Vermont.

He’s got another week until his Boston show, and he’s not even ashamed to say that he’s counting the hours. He’s always liked Boston a little more than some other American cities because it reminds him the most of London, but now it’s going to reunite him with the only person who isn’t family that Louis’s been excited to see in what feels like _years_.

The cell phone reception is still shit in Vermont, which means that Louis doesn’t really get to talk to Harry very much at all. Harry gets enough signal to send a text about once an hour, and now that the weather there is getting nicer, he’s been busier than ever with all the people getting in their last few ski trips of the year while there’s still snow. Louis used to love skiing, before he signed his life and all his free time away; he hopes he can spend a proper holiday at Styles Lodge someday, take full advantage of all it has to offer (mainly Harry, if he’s honest).

He’s made the executive decision to take some time off as soon as this tour is over. Things have been pretty shit lately, and he’s feeling more burnt out than ever. There’s talks of hiring another public girlfriend, even though Louis hasn’t breathed a word of Harry to a single person, and the thought of it kinda makes him want to quit altogether. As much as he loves making music, he absolutely hates all the other bullshit that comes with it. He needs to relax for a bit, like he hasn’t in so, so long, and he’s got a pretty good vacation spot in mind.

He’s in Indianapolis tonight, which means almost nothing to him. It’s a lovely city, or so he’s heard, and he’s sure that his fans here are absolutely wonderful, but he isn’t exactly partial to any of it. All he wants to do is get on stage, make some noise, and be on his way so he can do it again.

The one thing he can say about Indianapolis is that he’s the closest he’s been to Harry in almost two weeks, and he’s finally in the same time zone again. It’s not like there was a huge difference when Louis was in Chicago a few days ago, only one hour and a bit of distance more, but it’s comforting to check the time and know that he’s closer than ever to seeing Harry again.

He gets two texts a little while before he goes onstage, both from the contact he’s very sneakily named _Dude Bro_.

_Dude Bro: Have a good show tonight Sweetums :D_

_Dude Bro: Also I’ve changed my mind again, Two of Us is my favorite song from the album. Will update later when it changes again. They’re all just SO GOOD!!_

Louis bites down on his grin and turns his phone on airplane mode, burying it at the bottom of his backpack and heading out to get ready to begin the show.

He manages to put the real world away every time he goes on stage, to leave every thought that doesn’t pertain to his music in his dressing room where he won’t have to touch them until later. It’s his favorite way to perform, completely disconnected and free, just him and the fans and the music.

One last thought does manage to slip through in the middle of the show, though, like it has done the past few nights, and Louis takes a little pause to introduce a different song. “This one is for a friend of mine, because it’s his favorite,” he says, sitting down at the piano. “This is Two of Us.”

-

The following week is the slowest of Louis’s life. It’s a school vacation in New England, apparently, so Louis hears from Harry once a day at most, usually either before the sun is up or long after Louis has already passed out for the night. 

If he’s honest, he’s a little nervous to see Harry again. The last time they saw each other was a little tense, and a _lot_ emotional, and even though they’ve been texting as much as they can, Louis’s not really sure how the reunion is going to go. They’re going to be in a lot of company when they see each other, and Louis’s explained that multiple times, but he can only hope that Harry truly understands what will happen if people even get an inkling that the two of them are more than strictly friendly.

It’s not that Louis’s afraid anyone will recognize Harry; Harry didn’t even talk to anyone on his team, aside from Louis’s manager, who doesn’t even recognize _Louis_ sometimes if he hasn’t seen him in a while. He just has this really fun, deep-rooted terror of anyone catching him engaging in any kind of emotion that isn’t either fake or extremely well rehearsed, which is probably, definitely something he should work on.

They arrive in Boston on Saturday morning, with a few hours to spare to get settled into the hotel before they have to head to the venue. Louis hasn’t spoken to Harry since Harry left Vermont early this morning, but his fingers are trembling a bit with a mixture of nerves and excitement as he pulls his phone out of his pocket to text him.

_Louis: hey! you’re probably driving so don’t answer but i’m at the hotel in boston !! let me know when you get here_

He puts his phone down on the desk and flops down on the bed for a few minutes, considering what happens next. Harry’s staying in the same hotel, but a few floors down so as to not raise suspicion. Louis tried to pay for Harry’s room, but Harry insisted that he wasn’t going to be one of those people who use Louis for his money, and while Louis appreciates the sentiment, he does feel quite bad about Harry coming all this way and spending all this money just to see him. 

His phone vibrates on the desk after only a minute or so, and he nearly breaks his ankle in his haste to get up and check it. 

_Dude Bro: I’ve hit some traffic in western Mass but I should be there within the hour! Can’t wait to see you!!! :D_

Louis chews on his lip for a moment, putting his phone back down and pinching at the inside of his wrist. Right, he needs a shower, and some water, because suddenly his throat is so dry he might choke. He doesn’t answer Harry’s text, rushing to lock himself in the bathroom for the next thirty minutes and try to calm himself down.

It’s not that big a deal, he tells himself. Harry is just a guy. He’s just a guy that Louis let touch him, and kiss him, and make him feel more important and special than anyone’s done in years. He’s just the _only_ guy that Louis’s ever let do most of those things, and the _only_ person in the world who knows anything about who Louis really is, aside from his family and closest friends. He’s _just a guy_.

By the time he gets out of the shower and gets himself dressed, he’s got another text waiting from Harry. He holds his breath while he opens it, eyes moving so fast he can barely read it.

_Dude Bro: Just parked!!! I’m gonna check in and drop my stuff, then I’ll come to yours? What room are you in??_

Louis nearly passes out, fingers fumbling over the phone. The message was sent nearly ten minutes ago, which means Harry is definitely checked in by now, and is definitely wondering where the hell Louis is. He taps out his reply quickly, already moving to wait by the door.

_Louis: room 1432 !!_

_Dude Bro: On my way!!!! :DDD_

Harry’s reply is instantaneous, and its arrival takes all of Louis’s breath right out of his lungs. He stares down at his phone for the next 94 seconds, half expecting it to chime again to tell him that Harry’s changed his mind, he’s lost interest, he’s going home after all.

His concentration is broken by a hesitant knock on the door, and when Louis looks through the peephole he finds Harry just on the other side, glancing behind himself nervously. He whips the door open and all but drags Harry inside, closing the door behind him just as fast.

“Woah,” Harry laughs, stumbling into Louis’s chest. “Jeez, hi.”

“Hi,” Louis says, hand locked around Harry’s wrist. “Sorry. Hi.”

“You’re kinda squeezing,” Harry says, nodding toward his wrist, but he’s smiling, he’s smiling and he’s _so_ pretty, Louis could scream.

“Sorry,” Louis says, loosening his grip but not letting go. “How are you? How was the drive?”

“Good, and good,” Harry says, his free hand coming to settle on Louis’s waist. They’re standing so close together, like they’re going to kiss but Louis can’t stop looking at him, smiling, too. “You smell good,” Harry says.

“Thanks,” Louis says, “I showered.”

“Good,” Harry says, getting a little bit closer like he doesn’t even notice himself doing it. “Hey, um, can I kiss you?”

Louis’s nerves bubble up his throat in the form of laughter and he steps back, and then steps forward again, right into Harry’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, eyes stuck on Harry’s lips.

Harry grins and leans in, catching Louis’s lips easily. Louis melts into him like ice in a hot mouth, letting go of his wrist and grabbing at his shoulders instead to hoist himself even closer. Harry hugs him low around his waist and backs him against the door, using his weight to trap him in and kiss him harder. Louis moans and then laughs a little, breaking away to press his smile into Harry’s neck.

“Somethin’ funny?” Harry says, digging his fingers into Louis’s sides to make him laugh a little more.

“No,” Louis laughs, squirming until Harry stops tickling him. “I missed you, is all.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but Louis can practically feel his smile radiating through his body at every point they’re still touching.

“Where’s your seat for tonight?” Louis asks, pulling back an inch to look up at Harry’s face. 

“Balcony,” Harry says, leaning down to kiss at Louis’s jaw. “Didn’t want you to get distracted by me if I was too close. It was also the cheapest of the few tickets still available,” he admits.

Louis hums, tilting his head back to let Harry have at it. “Something tells me I’m gonna be distracted by you anyway,” he says, wrapping his arms behind Harry’s neck to draw him in closer.

Harry laughs against his throat, slipping his hands up the back of Louis’s shirt and locking his hands around his hips, brushing his thumbs over Louis’s skin so gently it makes Louis shiver. “Whatever you do,” Harry says, “don’t think about what I’m gonna do to you tonight.”

“Stop,” Louis says, pushing at his chest weakly. 

“And all day tomorrow,” Harry says. “And half of the next day…”

Louis’s never been so happy to have some time between shows, he thinks. It’s hardly even begun, but he’s already regretting the end of his time in Boston, already dreading saying goodbye again.

“What time do you have to leave for the show?” Harry asks, working his way behind Louis’s ear. Louis shivers so hard he can’t help but gasp, curling his hands into fists in the front of Harry’s jumper.

“Couple hours,” Louis says, eyes slipping closed. 

Harry makes a contented noise right against Louis’s ear and then pulls back, keeping his grip on Louis’s hips as he moves away from the door. Louis follows easily, feeling drugged, until Harry sits him down on the bed and climbs right into his lap to kiss him again.

Louis’s in his own personal heaven, gripping Harry’s thighs tight while Harry kisses the life out of him. Harry keeps making all these little noises into his mouth, touching Louis’s hair, his back, his sides, like he’s trying to explore every inch of him. Louis wants to let him, wants to so badly, so he slides his hands up Harry’s thighs and grabs the hem of his jumper, instead, tugging it up until Harry gets the hint and pulls away to tear it off.

Louis grins, hands immediately going for Harry’s soft hips. Harry’s stomach jumps a little when Louis touches him, so Louis does it again, brushing his fingers featherlight across Harry’s lower stomach.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath and giggles, grabbing Louis’s hand and forcing him down onto his back, hand pinned to the bed. Louis uses his free hand to pinch at Harry’s hip, earning himself a yelp and another restrained hand. Harry’s just about to lean in and kiss him again when there’s a quick knock on the door, and fear like Louis’s never known shoots through his entire body.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rolling over so quickly he nearly catapults Harry off the bed. “Oh my _fucking_ god.”

“Louis?” someone calls from the hallway. It’s his goddamn fucking assistant, fucking _fuck_. “Are you in there? I need to talk to you about some things for tonight.”

“Hold on!” Louis calls, shoving Harry off the bed frantically. “You need to hide,” he whispers, getting up quickly and fixing his clothes.

“Where?” Harry whispers back, just as panicked, glancing around the room.

“In the closet!” Louis whispers, shoving him toward the folding doors beside the bed. “Go!”

“The closet?” Harry asks, hesitantly, opening the door. “Isn’t the dramatic irony a little too obvious?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Louis says through gritted teeth, manhandling him inside the closing the door quickly. He rushes to let his assistant in as soon as he’s sure Harry is out of sight, pasting on his calmest smile.

“Is everything alright?” his assistant asks. 

“Peachy keen,” Louis says, grinning. “Need something?”

“Um, yeah,” his assistant says, frowning confusedly as she lets herself into the room. Louis plans her murder in his head, clenching his jaw as he lets the door fall shut. “The venue wants to know if you want anything in your dressing room tonight. I’ll send them the usual list, of course, but do you want anything else?” she asks.

“Nope,” Louis says immediately. “The usual should do it. Thanks, love-”

“One more thing,” his assistant says, “Ryan, the sound tech, wants to know if you’re planning to make any more changes to the setlist in the middle of the show tonight? You’ve been really throwing him off his game, so he just wants to be prepared if you-”

“No, no, I’ll stick to the setlist,” Louis says. “Is that it?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” his assistant asks. “You look a little flushed. Have you been drinking? You know that we hate it when you drink before you go onstage.”

“No, I haven’t been drinking,” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Alright,” his assistant says, but she doesn’t seem convinced. “Do you need anything?”

“Nope, everything’s perfect,” Louis says, trying to herd her back toward the door. “I’ll call you if I think of anything, okay?”

“Okay,” his assistant says, finally seeming appeased. That is, until she trips over Harry’s fucking jumper. “Whose sweater is that?” she frowns, picking it up and shaking it out.

“Uh, it’s mine,” Louis says, snatching it out of her hands.

“Is it new?” she asks. “I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“Are you kidding?” Louis scoffs. “I wear it all the time,” he says, pulling it over his head, like an idiot.

It looks ridiculous on him, drooping over his shoulders like a potato sack, hanging uneven about halfway down his thighs. He didn’t think Harry was much taller or broader than him, but he realizes now how wrong he was.

“Huh,” his assistant says, looking confused again. “Right, well, I’m off, then. Call me if you need me,” she says, letting herself out of Louis’s room.

Louis sighs in relief, falling face first onto the bed. Harry comes out from his hiding spot laughing, crawling up onto the bed beside him and rubbing his back gently.

“That was awful,” he coos. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis growls, sitting up and pulling Harry’s jumper off just to ball it up and throw it at his face. “God, that was so scary.”

Harry falls quiet, gently folding his jumper in his lap. “Sorry,” he says after a long minute. “I mean, I knew how serious this all is, but, like, I don’t think I really _knew_ ,” he says.

Louis chews on his bottom lip, staring down at his own lap. “It’s-” he hesitates, shaking his head. “One wrong move, and it all goes away. One mistake, and I’m back on a leash. I can’t, Harry, I can’t do that again,” he says quietly.

Harry doesn’t say anything, sitting very, very still. Louis feels like the entire world has been turned upside down in the past five minutes, and he’s beginning to see just fucked up everything really is.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be here,” he says, staring determinedly at his own knee. 

“What?” Harry asks, looking up quickly. Louis doesn’t meet his eye, but he can imagine how upset Harry looks. “One person comes within a mile of knowing I exist and you’re ready to throw in the towel?”

“Do you understand how much is at stake here, Harry?” Louis asks. “This is my _career_.”

“No,” Harry says. “This is _insane_ , Louis. They can’t treat you like this! Who fucking cares if you’re gay? Who fucking cares? Are they even allowed to care? Is this even legal?”

“There’s so much you don’t understand,” Louis says, rubbing at his face. “There’s so much _I_ don’t even understand. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this, I’m so sorry-”

“What the fuck,” Harry says, reaching out cupping Louis’s chin, forcing him to look up. Louis wants to cry, wants to melt into a puddle on the floor and fall apart and then maybe go back in time and never sign that fucking contract to begin with, if only to spare himself all of this damage. “Maybe that’s true, but I think I should explain some things to _you_ , asshole.”

Louis flinches, recoiling quickly, but Harry doesn’t even seem to care that nobody has ever _dared_ to talk to Louis like this.

“I don’t do this,” Harry says, gesturing between them. “I don’t do casual fucking, I don’t do casual _anything_ , honestly. I don’t sit naked in hotel rooms with almost-strangers and fight over a simple fuck. If that’s what I was looking for, I wouldn’t have come here in the first place,” he says, tugging his jumper back over his head angrily. “Maybe that’s all you wanted all along. Maybe I misunderstood the situation, but I really don’t think that’s true. I think you’re scared, and you’re used to people giving up on you when things get rough, so that’s what you’re trying to do now. Right?”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Louis mutters, feeling like Harry just stripped him naked, though he’s still fully dressed. “Alright, yeah, maybe. And why aren’t you running?” he says to Harry’s chest. “I would run. I wish I could run.”

“Because I think you’re worth sticking around for,” Harry says, marginally softer. Louis wants to cry again, without the harshness of Harry’s tone keeping him rigid and stiff. “I think you need someone to show you real, genuine care,” Harry says, reaching out to brush his knuckles against Louis’s knee. “Not the kind of superficial love your fans can offer you, not the kind of fake love the people you make money for can offer you, but the kind of love that covers every bit of you, every _real_ bit of you, not just the bits you present to hide the other bits,” he says. “You deserve someone who can show you how beautiful all these parts of you that you hate are, Louis, you don’t have to be this scared of yourself.”

“I’m not fucking broken,” Louis says, but he sounds it. No one’s ever called him out like this before, and it’s jarring, makes him wonder how many people have noticed it before and never said anything. Has he been this bad at pretending the whole time?

“I never said you were,” Harry says, spreading his fingers out and laying his hand flat on top of Louis’s knee. 

“I love what I do,” Louis says, staring down at Harry’s hand. “And the people I work for have the ability to absolutely ruin me if I cross them. Do you get that? Do you realize that _they_ decide when this all goes away?”

“No, I don’t understand it at all,” Harry admits. “I think it’s all absolute bullshit, and I fucking hate it, and I don’t know why you put up with it.”

“It’s my _life_ ,” Louis says. “It’s just- I don’t know. It’s how it is. Yeah, this part sucks, but,” he shrugs, chewing on his lip.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, letting his hand drop from Louis’s knee onto the bed.

“This is so embarrassing,” Louis says, rubbing at his face again. “You came down here to see a guy you liked and go to a concert and now we’re fighting in my hotel room and my assistant thinks I’m drunk off my ass,” he sighs.

Harry’s quiet for a minute, not moving a muscle. “Do you really want me to leave?” he asks, finally, so quietly, but Louis still flinches.

“What?”

“Do you want me to leave?” Harry asks again. “Because I will. But I don’t want to,” he says.

Louis pauses, blinks once, twice, and then shakes his head. “Please don’t leave,” he whispers, meeting Harry’s eyes for the first time since they both started yelling.

Harry opens his arms wordlessly, and Louis crawls right into them, tucking himself into Harry’s chest and holding him around his waist. Harry’s arms come down around him, and Louis lets his eyes fall closed.

“I think you’re right,” he admits, talking into the inside of Harry’s bicep. “I think I’m a little fucked up.”

“No, you’re not fucked up,” Harry says. “You’re just surrounded by people who don’t actually give a shit about you,” he says.

“Oh,” Louis says quietly. “Cheers.”

“Is that news to you?” Harry asks, tucking his chin over Louis’s head.

“No,” Louis says. “I always loved music so much when I was younger, I sang all the time, started playing guitar before I could even do my multiplication tables. I started posting videos of myself singing when I was 16, just stupid karaoke covers, videos of me performing at talent shows, and videos of the terrible little band my friends and I had for, like, two months. I just liked performing, loved having people’s attention on me, entertaining people. I never thought anything was going to come of it, you know, nothing like this,” he admits. “I mean, I dreamt, obviously. Who doesn’t? But it feels like I went to sleep one night and dreamt all this up, and I still haven’t woken up. One night I went to sleep and then some hotshot music producer discovered my videos, offered me a contract that I signed without even really understanding, and everything’s just gone so fast and been so intense ever since it feels exactly like a dream, all jumbled and out of order and nothing really makes very much sense at all,” he says.

“Do you regret it?” Harry asks. “Any of it?”

“I regret not having a proper lawyer look over the contract,” Louis says. “I regret agreeing to the first fake girlfriend because I thought it was purely for publicity, and I regret being roped into every fake relationship after that. I regret letting them convince me that my sexuality was going to make people listen to my music less, and I regret ever thinking that the people who would stop listening were fans I wanted, anyway,” he mutters. “I regret that my real fans don’t know a goddamn thing about me, but I don’t regret the things that make them like me in the first place, which is my music. That’s the only part that’s real. That’s the only part I wouldn’t change a thing about,” he says.

“Can’t you find a different manager?” Harry asks. “Someone who’ll let you be you?”

“It’s not just my manager,” Louis says. “It’s my whole management team, my PR rep, my label, everyone. It’s all a big web of bullshit and lies, and if one part goes, the whole thing comes tumbling down, and I’m the only one who’s going to look bad for it,” he says.

“Fuck,” Harry sighs, hugging him a little tighter. They’re both quiet for a minute, and Louis thinks he could fall asleep like this if not for the dull, nagging fear that someone else is going to interrupt them, but then after a little while Harry speaks again. “We can have this, though, can’t we?” he asks. “We can have this, and it can just be ours?”

“Ours,” Louis says, pressing his face into Harry’s chest. “You want that?”

“Maybe it’s silly,” Harry says. “But I’m kind of attached to you. You’re, like, different from anyone else I’ve been with. I don’t know why. It feels right,” he says.

“Right,” Louis repeats, voice muffled by Harry’s jumper. “Right how?”

“Right, like, I think I could fall in love with you,” Harry says, his voice getting smaller with every word.

Louis opens his eyes, blinks once, and then sits up to grin at Harry’s face. “Really?” he asks, a little ball of sunshine warmth growing behind his ribcage.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says, blushing so hard Louis can practically feel it. 

“Cool,” Louis says, tucking himself close to Harry’s chest again. “Same.”

“Same?” Harry asks, tracing his fingers up and down Louis’s spine.

“I think I could fall in love with you, too, maybe,” Louis says, grinning into Harry’s neck.

“Oh,” Harry says, sounding relieved. “Cool.”

Louis hums, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s neck. “And you’re totally sure you don’t wanna run? I mean, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come out, and there’s probably going to be more fake girlfriends, probably even some worse stunts, like-”

“Hey,” Harry says, effectively shutting him up. “It’s cool. Ours, remember? And what I said about famous people the first time we met still stands; I’m more than fine with never being known by anyone except you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of Louis’s head.

Louis relaxes, squeezing Harry a little. “Cool,” he says once more, giggling when Harry shoves him over onto his back and climbs up on top of him, kissing the laughter right out of him. 

They spend the rest of the early afternoon in more or less the same position, wrapped up in each other while the rest of the world goes on around them, and nothing matters to them that isn’t _theirs_.

-

Harry sneaks out about half an hour before Louis is supposed to meet his team in the hallway to set off for the venue, and Louis can’t help but start missing him the second he’s gone. He sits at the edge of the bed, waiting for someone to come and get him, staring ahead the closet door, which is still slightly ajar from when Harry came out of his hiding spot earlier.

It’s odd, he thinks, how nice it is to imagine that Harry was still here with him, to imagine leaving the hotel with him, arriving to the venue hand in hand, to imagine his fans calling out to them, supporting them, oohing and awing over how cute they are as a couple. Louis holds his own hand for a moment, and then wraps his arms around his own middle, holding himself the way Harry held him earlier, like he was afraid to let Louis go. Louis wonders if he should be afraid, too, of letting himself go.

The knock on the door is both long awaited and far too soon for Louis’s liking. He unfolds himself carefully and stands from the bed, slipping his phone in his pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he heads out to join the world.

The ride to the venue is short and quick, and there are already a couple of fans waiting outside, waving excitedly at the bus as it pulls through to the loading dock. Louis waves back as best he can as he’s herded out of the bus and inside the building, but he doesn’t really get a chance to see anyone, which is disappointing, but not uncommon.

Harry isn’t here yet, he knows, but he still can’t help keeping an eye out for him during sound check. None of the smiling faces in the VIP crowd are the one he wants to see, and not a single person in the meet and greet line is quite right, either, and Louis tries his hardest not to hold it against them.

He doesn’t hear from Harry at all until a little while after the doors have opened, when Louis’s in his dressing room, procrastinating getting up to have his hair and makeup done. His phone vibrates with a text and he does everything in his power to appear casual about it, and not like the knowledge that Harry’s out there somewhere ready to watch him is giving him stage fright like he hasn’t had in years.

_Dude Bro: Just found my seat!! The view isn’t great :/_

There’s a picture attached of Harry’s view of the stage, and it is, in fact, not great. He’s way off to the left, all the way up in the nosebleeds, so far over that he’s almost looking at the stage from behind. Louis frowns, zooming in on the picture to memorize exactly where Harry is in relation to where Louis will be on the stage, and then quickly taps out his reply.

_Louis: don’t worry, I’ll give you a much better view for free later ;) gotta go!! I’ll text u when i get back to the hotel tonight !! xx_

_Dude Bro: Okay! Break a leaf!!!!_

_Dude Bro: Leg*** damn predictive text_

Louis laughs to himself and turns his phone on airplane mode, hiding it at the bottom of his backpack, like usual. He sits down for hair and makeup while his support goes onstage a few minutes later, and somehow, the knowledge that Harry is out there waiting for him is simultaneously the most calming and most unsettling feeling in the world.

-

The lights go out, and the stadium swells with noise, as if making up for the way everything has suddenly dropped away. This is always Louis’s favorite part, the surge of power and adrenaline as he walks out onto the stage, guitar strapped around his shoulders, to stand on the faintly glowing X in the center of the stage. It’s still dark, and the screams are growing ever louder, ever more deafening, even through the sound of the drummer counting down in his in-ear. The drums start first, a steady rhythm, and the screaming presses down even harder upon the stage, until it squeezes a few notes from the bassist, as well. The tempo builds, and Louis centers himself, counts the drum beats for one, two, three, four, one, two, three-

The lights go up with the first strum of Louis’s guitar, and then there’s music, a melody that Louis recognizes, as well as a sea of tiny, indistinguishable faces, bobbing along to the beat. Louis grins, tilting his head back toward the sky, and the sea screams a little louder, impossibly, as if challenging him to counter back with his song.

The moment he starts singing, the whole world shifts and sings along, shouting his own words back at him in perfect rhythm. It’s the best, the _best_ feeling in the whole world, and he soaks it in, closing his eyes and letting the sea of voices wash over him in thick, powerful waves, threatening to drag him right off his feet and into the thick of it.

Everything fades away in time, until it’s just Louis and the music in 60,000 iterations, a slightly different song for every set of ears in the room. That’s the thing he loves the most about it, he thinks; these words mean something to everyone in here, but they don’t mean the same thing for any two people, and yet for now, for tonight, they’re all just one body, a beautiful mass of living and feeling.

He almost forgets that Harry is even there until a few songs in, when he finally stops to take a drink of water and have a bit of a chat with the audience. He does the obligatory wave to every corner of the stadium, and if he lingers a little when he turns to Harry’s general direction, no one has to know why.

“Good evening, Boston,” he says into his microphone, grinning at the eruption of cheers. “How are we tonight? You lot are _loud_.”

The audience cheers again, even louder, as if to validate his point. Louis laughs, plucks a few random notes on his guitar, and glances around the stadium again.

“A friend of mine is out there somewhere tonight,” he says, determinedly not looking in Harry’s direction, like if he did, somehow the entire crowd would know exactly who he was talking about. “They’ve never been to one of my shows before, and I quite value their opinion, so I’m feeling a bit of pressure right now,” he jokes, glancing up. He catches sight of himself on the massive screen behind him, and he quickly turns to find the camera, giving it a cheeky grin. “So, anyway, enough chatter. Let’s make a bit more noise, hm?”

The audience wails in agreement, so Louis ducks away from his microphone with a smile and hammers out the opening riff of the next song easily. Reality tapers off again for a little while, and Louis doesn’t miss it; this is the part that makes the rest of it worth it, he thinks, when he stops for another short break and sucks down half a bottle of water. He tosses the bottle out into the crowd when he’s finished, laughing at the brief tussle that breaks out over who gets to keep it.

He wants desperately to know if Harry’s having fun, if Louis’s making him proud, if he’s finally beginning to understand why Louis’s so willing to put up with all of the bullshit in his life so he can have this. He plays some random riffs on his guitar and walks the length of the catwalk, standing right out on the edge and turning in a slow circle to survey the audience once more. They go wild with it, every single one of them vying for his attention, but Louis doesn’t give in, turning slowly until he lands on where he suspects Harry is sitting. If he squints, he can almost imagine he sees one lone little figure way up high, waving down at him like a madman. Louis just grins and turns away, walking back down the catwalk to the main stage again to resume his post at his microphone.

His band is watching him curiously, waiting for him to make the next move; he does this often, disrupts the natural, rehearsed order of the show, and he knows it annoys them, but it’s his show, after all, and he can do what he pleases, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Much to his bandmates’ dismay, he kicks the setlist to the curb once again tonight and switches out his electric guitar for his acoustic, and then plops down cross-legged in front of his microphone, pulling the levered arm down until he can speak into it comfortably.

“This next song is new, very new,” he says, strumming the guitar in his lap gently. “It was written a few weeks ago, right before this tour started, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I’d like to play it for you now, if that’s alright?” he says, smiling when the audience cheers their enthusiastic consent.

He looks down as he starts playing, and he doesn’t look up the entire time, watching his hands move over the strings of the guitar and picturing himself back in the sun room at the lodge, snow swirling down around him like a vortex while he’s safe in a little bubble with Harry, their sweet music filling up their humble encasement.

“My heart’s as heavy as snow on a glass roof, and twice as cold, my knuckles are white ‘round the wrist of an already departed soul,” he sings, voice echoing over the sudden silence of the room. He closes his eyes, and he’s back in the sun room for real, and Harry’s right beside him, singing along with him.

“Now you’re a ghost in the snow, lost in the frozen trees of a mind that refuses to let you go,” they sing together, in perfect harmony, like their voices belong together, two halves of a whole. “If you think you could love me, come back to me, darling, and tell me so,” their voices twist and combine, supporting and contrasting each other like opposite ends of the same spectrum. Louis’s read these lyrics so many times, over and over again every single night since he’s been on the road, and he knows them so well he could recite them in his sleep, but he needs Harry now, needs to help him carry the tune, because without him none of it makes any sense.

They finish out the song strong and sweet, the final notes reverberating around the sun room so perfectly it makes Louis shiver, but in so different a way than the frigid air outside could do. Louis peels his eyes open slowly to glance over at Harry, but instead he finds the edge of the stage and about a thousand not-Harrys, and reality comes rushing back to him in the wall of screams and cheers that collapses down around him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly into the microphone, picking himself up off the floor and running to the back of the stage, exchanging guitars once more. His bandmates look annoyed, rightfully so, but Louis couldn’t care less, scurrying back to the front of the stage, fixing his microphone stand, and carrying on like nothing happened at all.

Every other song he plays during the remainder of the show feels like it pales in comparison to Harry’s song, but the audience seems to love it all just the same. For the last song of the night, Louis puts his guitar away and runs free with his microphone in hand, dancing his terribly uncoordinated, dorky dancing up and down the catwalk. Everyone loves him, and he loves everyone back, and he finishes the show laughing, blowing kisses to the stadium at large and dancing himself right off the stage.

The second he steps out of view of the stadium, he’s no longer a star. He resumes his status as a commodity immediately, at least in everyone else’s eyes; no one stops to congratulate him on a great show, no one tells him how well he did, no one even hardly looks at him. He’s stripped of his mic pack and his in-ear and then sent on his way, his band pushing past him like they haven’t a care in the world that Louis’s just had the time of his life for the past two hours. Louis swallows the joy and pride still bubbling in his chest and walks alone to his dressing room, locking himself inside to change out of his sweat soaked stage clothes and then stepping into the cramped little toilet to rinse the sweat from his face and hair in the tiny sink. He pulls on a clean pair of joggers and a hoodie when he’s done and finds his way back out of the room silently, heading out to where his manager, assistant, and security guard are waiting to transport him from the back door to his tour bus in one swift movement, blocking him from view of all of the people Louis so desperately wants to stop and speak to.

They do a few laps around the city to lose anyone who might be trying to follow them back to the hotel, and by the time they arrive, the adrenaline has mostly worked its way out of Louis’s system, and all he wants is Harry and a warm bed, and maybe a quick shower. 

Despite their efforts, there are quite a few fans outside the hotel when they finally get there, and by now Louis’s too tired to really engage with any of them. He stops for a few sleepy selfies and gets himself a few unwanted kisses on the cheek, but within a few minutes his security guard safely deposits him inside the hotel lobby, and silence consumes him once more. 

He pulls his phone out of his backpack in the elevator, and it vibrates a few times in his hand, but he doesn’t check it until he’s safely hidden away in his own room. He sits down at the desk- because the second he touches a bed, he’ll knock out- and scrolls through his notifications, tapping on the most recent text from Harry.

_Dude Bro: THAT WAS AMAZING!!!! So so sosososo proud of you!!! Text me when you see this!!_

_Dude Bro: I’m heading back to the hotel now. Wanna meet up? My room or yours?_

_Dude Bro: I’m baaack… have you left the stadium yet?_

_Dude Bro: Lou?_

Louis smiles a little, quickly typing out his response.

_Louis: sorry some fans tried to follow me back so we had to drive around a bit. can i come to yours?_

_Dude Bro: Room 635 :D_

Louis gives it a few minutes and then drags himself out of his chair, peeking his head out into the hallway to make sure no one from his team is loitering around to catch him doing something shameful. He slips all the way out when the coast is clear, darting to the lift and heading all the way down to the 6th floor.

Harry’s room is down near the end of the hallway. Louis finds it with no trouble, knocking quietly on the door and keeping his head down, in case anyone’s around who might recognize him.

Harry opens the door almost immediately, like he was waiting just inside for Louis to come. “God, what took so long?” Harry hisses, tugging him into the room. “I thought some crazy fan snatched you in the elevator and I was gonna have to go on some crazy rescue mission.”

Louis laughs, pressing himself into Harry’s chest and hugging him around his waist. “Did you have fun?” he asks, voice muffled into Harry’s sternum.

“You,” Harry says, curling his arms around him sweetly, “put on one hell of a fucking good show.” He rubs Louis’s back for a moment, looking down at him. “Are you alright? I thought pop stars were supposed to be all giddy and horny after a show?”

“I’m not a _pop star_ , I’m a _rockstar_ , first of all,” Louis says. “I don’t know. I used to be, but,” he shrugs, shifting to look up at Harry without moving much, digging his chin into Harry’s ribcage. “I still get the adrenaline rush, but I’m not really allowed to act on it when I come off the stage, so it kinda wears off.”

“Oh,” Harry says, tracing his fingers up and down Louis’s spine. “But… am I allowed to be giddy and horny after your shows?”

Louis laughs, straightening up to plant a kiss right on Harry’s mouth. “Maybe,” he hums playfully. “Why, are you giddy and horny right now?”

“Maybe,” Harry teases right back, but he blushes, too. “You just- like, watching you up there, it was like- you sang the song, Lou, our song,” he says, grinning hard.

“Your song,” Louis says. “It’s more your song than mine.”

“Whatever,” Harry says. “You sang it. I didn’t know you were going to sing it,” he says.

“Me either,” Louis says. “That’s part of the reason why my entire team hates me so much, I just do what I want when I’m onstage. It’s the only time I’m allowed any freedom, so, I like to take full advantage of it,” he says.

“It was beautiful,” Harry says. “It was like you were in a completely different world when you were singing it. You just sat there and drifted away and the whole place, Lou, I swear, the _whole_ place was fucking _silent_ , hanging off your every word. I cried,” he admits.

Louis laughs, blushing a little himself. “It’s pretty special,” he says, peeling himself off Harry’s chest. “But you really enjoyed it? You actually had fun?” he asks hopefully, looking up at Harry properly for the first time since he came in.

“Yes,” Harry says immediately. “It was- I’ve been to plenty of concerts before, but nothing like that. It didn’t even feel real. I was, and I still am, so, so impressed and awed and just- fuck, I don’t even know what else. I just, like- I can’t believe you’re even real, and you’re here, and you’re-” he cuts himself off, apparently overwhelmed. He reaches out to grab Louis’s hips, pulling him in close again, and Louis goes willingly, a familiar zip of leftover adrenaline shooting up his spine. “I can’t even believe that you just went out there and did that and now _I’m_ the one that gets to hold you and kiss you and tell you how absolutely, amazingly, incredibly, perfectly fucking perfect you are,” he says, kissing Louis sweetly.

Louis grins against Harry’s lips, melting into his body in the way he’s recently discovered feels quite like home. Harry turns them both carefully and backs Louis toward the bed, but Louis is the one who lays himself down, reaching up to drag Harry right down on top of him. Harry follows like Louis’s got a leash around his neck, ends up hovering over Louis with his elbows planted on the mattress on either side of Louis’s head, hips settling on top of Louis’s like two of a matching set. 

The rest of the night and many of the early hours of the morning pass by like a stream of honey; sweet, slow, and with no sense of urgency or direction at all. They lose their clothes, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between them but skin and heat. The lights stay on most of the night, but Harry pulls the bedcovers up over his own shoulders and when he looms on top of Louis he creates a shield, a tiny shelter that keeps everything out except the heat and the tiny noises Harry keeps making in the back of his throat, and the whiny ones Louis makes every time he moves.

Nothing has ever felt better than this, Louis’s quite sure of it; the screams of all the audiences he’s ever played for combined could not be as overwhelming as the feeling of Harry fitting his mouth over Louis’s and breathing out hot, murmuring praises and sweet nothings right into Louis’s lungs, as if he knows Louis needs them as badly as he needs oxygen to survive. 

It’s the kind of pleasure that fades so simply into sleep, no definitive transition between the two. Louis falls asleep wrapped around Harry from behind, arms locked around his chest, face buried in the back of his neck. Their legs are tangled up together, sweaty and sore, and Harry’s got one hand curled loosely around Louis’s wrist, as if holding him in place, as if Louis would ever leave, if he had the choice. 

Tomorrow, Louis will have the entire day off, an entire day to spend right here, never more than an arm’s length away from his boy. He fully intends to leave his phone off and away for as long as absolutely possible, doesn’t even want to think about the outside world for as long as he gets to hide away in here, and he’ll just have to deal with the consequences of that choice later.

-

Much to Louis’s surprise, they don’t spend the entirety of the next day fucking. They do spend the majority of it naked and touching in at least one way, but mostly they just lounge around and talk. They talk about everything; the past, the future, the present, the abstract and the concrete. Louis learns more about Harry over the course of a few hours than he thought was possible, and in return, he lets Harry learn so much more than he’s let anyone learn in years. There’s something so thrilling about it, maybe even more so than the sex, which is saying a lot. Something about lying here, on his side with the sheets twisted around his waist, listening to Harry where he’s sprawled out on his back, arms stretched up over his head, while he tells stories from his childhood, it has Louis’s head spinning in the most pleasant way Louis can imagine.

Despite all of that, though, Louis finds his mind wandering every now and again, like his subconscious won’t let him ignore the fact that he’s doing something so stupid, so dangerous it could ruin his career. He’s so conscious of the sound of people moving about in the hallway, so conscious of the level of his own voice when he speaks, so painfully conscious of the fact that anyone outside could overhear him and tell the entire world and he’d be done for. Harry’s still going on about how his parents came to the decision to buy the lodge, but Louis can’t focus on anything except the sound of a few young girls in the hallway, laughing and giggling like they know something Louis doesn’t.

“Lou?” Harry says after a while. He looks concerned when Louis zones back in and meets his eyes, and he can already feel himself blushing. “What’s wrong?”

Louis just shakes his head, smiling what he hopes is an easy, breezy smile. Harry doesn’t look convinced, rolling onto his side to look at Louis head on.

“What?” Harry asks, eyes searching Louis’s quickly. “Did I say something?”

Louis shakes his head again quickly, reaching out to touch Harry’s face. Harry looks almost humorously confused, but also a little bit scared, reaching up to hold Louis’s hand in his own. 

“Why aren’t you speaking?” he asks, like he can’t hear the girls chattering quietly in the hallway right outside the room.

“There’s people outside,” Louis breathes, so quietly he’s almost just mouthing the words.

“What?” Harry asks, whispering now, too. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says, glancing over Harry’s shoulder at the door. “I don’t want them to hear my voice.”

“Do you know them?” Harry asks, eyes widening. “Are they fans, or something?”

“They could be,” Louis shrugs, pausing to listen for a moment longer. “If anyone knows I’m in here, they might tell someone, and it won’t be good,” he whispers, even as the girls’ voices move away down the hall.

Harry is silent for a few minutes, staring distantly at Louis’s chest. Louis turns his hand over where Harry’s still holding it and locks their fingers together, but the movement seems to startle Harry, and he sits up.

“Is this what our whole relationship is going to be like?” he asks, voice at a regular volume now that the hallway is silent again. 

“Like what?” Louis asks, itching to reach up and pull Harry back down, kiss him until he forgets whatever it is that’s got him freaked out suddenly. He doesn’t, though, because Harry looks tense, as if he’ll burst like a pressurized can if Louis touches him at the wrong moment.

“Like,” Harry asks, waving a hand through the air. “Like, you being paranoid, and me not understanding? I’m trying, I swear, I’m trying to keep in mind how big and deep and important this all is, but it’s just, like-” he cuts off with a sigh and rubs at his face, like he’s the one who has anything to be stressed about.

Louis stays perfectly, absolutely still for the longest minute of his life, and then sits up slowly, leaning back against the headboard. Harry’s still hunched over in front of him, and Louis is very careful not to touch him at all, folding his legs in front of himself neatly.

“I don’t think I can do this if you’re going to keep acting like my fears aren’t valid,” he says, voice even and measured. It’s his professional voice, the one he uses in interviews so they can have a clear, clean soundbyte to use so that there won’t be any shadow of confusion as to what he meant. 

“I-” Harry stutters, turning around quickly to look at him. “Louis, I-”

“I know you think it’s silly, and you think I’m overreacting,” Louis says, in that same cool, collected voice. Harry looks horrified, like he hates it as much as Louis hates using it, but Louis’s so deeply terrified of showing any more emotion that Harry could use to belittle him that he doesn’t know how else to handle this. “And I get it, I do. I know exactly how fucking stupid this must seem to you.”

“It’s not, it’s not stupid,” Harry says, moving quickly to sit closer to Louis’s side, grabbing for his hand again.

“I know that,” Louis says, staring down at the bed. “But I don’t think you do.”

“Stop talking like that,” Harry says, nuzzling into Louis’s neck. “I hate that. You sound like a robot. I know it’s your defense mechanism, but please don’t use it on me. You don’t have to defend yourself from me.”

“Don’t I?” Louis scoffs. “Because it feels like-”

“Put yourself in my shoes, for a goddamn second,” Harry says, effectively shutting Louis up. “There’s this guy you like, this really cute, sweet, talented, funny guy, and he seems to like you as much as you like him, but he won’t come within three feet of you until you get caught up in a moment and kiss him by accident. And then finally he seems to open up, like some kind of barrier was knocked down, and then the next morning you find out he’s some kind of celebrity, and he was completely prepared to just leave you behind like a sweet memory without ever even telling you who he was, but despite how fucking bad that hurts, you continue to throw yourself at him, and he allows it, so you pine after him for nearly a month and then follow him to another city and into some crazy, fucked up world you didn’t even know existed. You’re completely out of your depth, absolutely terrified and confused by all of it, and worst of all, you’re watching this sweet, beautiful person go through the absolute most traumatic experience you can imagine, and he’s blaming _you_ for not being okay with it all. Does that sound fair to you?”

Louis’s shocked silent for a long minute or two, and Harry’s breathing deep and harsh like he might cry out of pure frustration, breath catching in his throat every now and again. Louis’s so embarrassed he thinks he could just melt away and cease to exist altogether, and Harry won’t stop clinging to his hand.

“I never,” Louis says eventually, voice weak like he’s just woken up. “I never thought about it like that.”

“I know,” Harry says, hugging him around his middle and tucking himself fully into Louis’s side. “You have your own shit to worry about. It’s okay.”

“I don’t- I don’t want you to feel like that,” Louis says, hugging him back, pressing his hands flat against Harry’s naked back to hide the way they’re trembling. “I was eased into it, this has all been years in the making, it doesn’t even feel like anything anymore. Harry, if this is too much for you-”

“Don’t even start,” Harry says. “I’m not going anywhere. I wasn’t lying when I said I was going to be the one to show you what real, genuine love looks like, and real, genuine love isn’t running away because things are less than ideal.”

“I don’t know that it’ll ever get better,” Louis says, voice smaller than ever. “I can’t promise you that your loving me is gonna make any of this go away.”

“Of course it’s not,” Harry says. “But that’s something I’m prepared to deal with. Just- forgive me if it takes a while for me to stop being so horrified at what you have to go through.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, pressing his face into Harry’s hair. “I’m really sorry, Harry.”

“About what?” Harry asks, looking up at him with a frown. 

“About bringing you into all of this,” Louis says, unable to quite meet Harry’s eyes. “When you said I was prepared to leave you behind completely when I left the lodge, I- that wasn’t true. I was never less prepared for anything in my life. The only reason I was so willing to leave without looking back was because I never wanted you to have to deal with any of this,” he admits.

“Well, dickhead, that was never your decision to make,” Harry says sweetly. “You don’t get to decide what I do or don’t deal with. _I do_. And I’m deciding that your battle is my battle, for as long as you’ll decide to keep me around,” he says, leaning up to plant a kiss on Louis’s cheek. “Because you aren’t alone in this, you know? You don’t have to be, anyway. We all need support, and I’d love more than anything in the world to be the one supporting you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Louis says, pressing a long, lingering kiss to Harry’s forehead. 

“There’s a lot of things in your life you don’t deserve,” Harry says, “and I’m hardly the worst of them.”

Louis laughs, squeezing him tight for a moment before letting go and slipping out of bed. Harry sprawls dramatically over his vacated space, watching him curiously as Louis pulls on his joggers and fishes his lighter and a carton of cigarettes out of the pocket.

“You can’t smoke in here,” Harry says, still watching from the bed like a dirty dream. “There’s a placard on the wall and everything.”

“I’m a badass rockstar, I can do whatever I want,” Louis jokes, dragging the desk chair over to the window and cracking it open, carefully sticking his hands out and lighting the cigarette.

“That’s a terrible habit,” Harry says. “Cigarettes are so bad for you.”

“I know, Grandma,” Louis says, grinning cheekily in Harry’s direction and taking a drag of his cigarette. He angles his face carefully so that he’s hidden behind the curtain when he blows the smoke out the window, focused enough that he doesn’t hear Harry come up behind him. 

Harry snatches the cigarette out of his hand and flicks it clear out the window, startling a gasp out of Louis. “Don’t be rude, rockstar,” Harry says, pulling Louis right of his chair and closing the curtain with a flourish while he shoves Louis toward the bed.

Louis’s too stunned to do anything but stand there and grin, a horny idiot in all his glory, as Harry stalks after him and tackles him backwards onto the bed. Louis spends the next few hours learning his lesson, or so Harry says, and Louis just hopes he’s got a million more lessons to learn from this boy.

-

Louis wakes up early the next morning, the sun just beginning to peek through the curtains and shining in his face. He always has trouble sleeping if he hasn’t been very active the day before, and seeing as how he never even left this bed yesterday, it makes sense to him now that he’s awake before 7am.

Harry’s still asleep, curled up behind him with an arm and a leg curled so tightly around Louis’s body it’s like he was afraid Louis would float away in his sleep. Louis doesn’t move for a little while, watching the sunlight inch up through the gap in the curtains and listening to Harry’s sweet, noisy mouth breathing.

He doesn’t know when the next time will be that he gets to experience this. He doesn’t know when he’s going to get to see Harry again, hold him, hug him, touch him and be touched by him. He’s already dreading the thought of waking up tomorrow without this warm body curled up behind him, a body that’s so full of love and ready to give at any and every cost. He wants to stay here forever, just like this, even with the sun shining harshly in his eyes and his joints growing stiffer with every passing moment.

Once the sun is high enough in the sky that it’s no longer shining directly through the window, Harry begins to shift and yawn behind him, pressing his face firmly into Louis’s spine as he wakes up. Louis grins, rolling over carefully to face him so that he can watch Harry’s pretty, sleepy eyes blink open.

“Morning,” Louis says, tracing a finger down between Harry’s eyes, all the way down his nose and over his lips. Harry’s eyes cross trying to follow the movement, and then he blinks lazily, lips twitching up into a smile as Louis’s finger passes over them.

“Did you know you hum in your sleep?” Harry asks, voice raspy and rough. “It’s like you’re made of music, it comes out of you even when you’re not awake.”

Louis grins, nudging forward until he’s planted himself under Harry’s chin. Harry holds him close, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut, memorizing the steady beat of Harry’s heart.

“I don’t think I can say goodbye to you,” Louis admits, talking directly into Harry’s chest. 

“You don’t have to,” Harry says. “I’m right here.”

“I have to leave in a few hours,” Louis says, pressing a little harder into the nook he’s created for himself between Harry’s neck and chest. Harry chokes a little, trying to make Louis laugh, but it doesn’t work.

“Well, we’ll just have to look forward to next time,” Harry says, tracing his fingers down Louis’s spine.

Louis’s going to cry, he’s absolutely sure of it, so he doesn’t say anything for a long few minutes. Harry just keeps touching him, as if assuring him he’s there while he still can, and Louis breathes out hard against his chest.

“Hey,” Harry says, pressing his lips to the top of Louis’s head. “I was thinking.” Louis’s focusing too hard on keeping his breathing steady to inquire further, but Harry seems to get that, so he doesn’t wait for Louis to acknowledge him before he goes on. “Summertime is our off season at the lodge, so I’ll have lots of free time.”

“I’m going to be on tour all summer,” Louis says, pressing his face harder into Harry’s chest. “Literally until August.”

“Exactly, and I’m going to be sitting around with nothing to do…” Harry says, trailing off as if waiting for Louis to finish his thought. Louis’s brain is too preoccupied to do much critical thinking at the moment, though, so he just picks his head up and frowns.

“I don’t get it,” Louis says, grumpy.

“I could come on tour with you!” Harry says, nudging Louis’s nose with his own, seemingly just because he can. 

“Don’t you think people would get suspicious, though?” Louis asks. “Like, ‘who’s this random guy and why is he always just _there_?’” he says.

“Well, couldn’t you use, like, another assistant, or something?” Harry asks. “Sophie seems incredibly busy.”

“Her name isn’t Sophie,” Louis says.

“What is her name, then?” Harry frowns.

“I,” Louis frowns back, “don’t actually know, to be honest.”

“Regardless,” Harry says. “I could be your personal guitar guy, who just carries your guitar from place to place and sits quietly out of the way when the guitar doesn’t need carrying. Or, like, maybe we could tell people I’m your physical trainer, or something, you know, always giving you workouts,” he says cheekily, pinching at Louis’s side.

“You’re just looking for a job, at this point,” Louis teases, though he can’t deny that it’s not actually a bad idea.

“You don’t even have to pay me,” Harry says. “I will accept kisses as reimbursement for my services.”

“Shut up,” Louis laughs, pushing at Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t know. It might work, but don’t get your hopes up. I’ll see what I can do,” he says, settling back into his place between Harry’s collarbones.

“You’re quite cute,” Harry says, “but you don’t really fit in there, and you’re choking me a bit.”

“Sorry,” Louis says, but he doesn’t move an inch.

They lay there for a while, just enjoying being able to breathe the same air and be close to one another. The more Louis thinks about it, the more he likes the idea of giving Harry some random little odd job in the tour crew just to have him close. It’s not like they’d have to sneak around and hide from anyone on the team, not necessarily; there may be increased closeting procedures to counteract the risk of Louis having even a private relationship with another man, but he’s sure they could figure it out. 

For now, though, he needs to focus on finding the willpower to drag himself out of this bed and back up to his room to have a shower and get ready to leave for Philadelphia. He pulls himself away from Harry in increments, first his face, and then each finger individually, until finally he’s peeled himself from every inch of Harry’s skin. He can’t bear to look when he finally rolls away and gets out of bed, keeping his eyes trained on the floor while he finds his hoodie and joggers and gets himself dressed.

“This it, then?” Harry asks, and when Louis finally turns to look at him, he’s sitting up in the center of the bed, sheets pulled up to his waist, looking tiny and sad and alone. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. “Thank you for coming. And for everything else. Thank you,” he says quietly, looking down again.

Harry sniffs loudly and gets out of bed, shuffling over to pull Louis close by his hips and plant one more kiss on his mouth. “Will you stop by one more time before you leave? So I can prepare myself to say goodbye?”

Louis huffs a tiny laugh, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says, leaning into Harry’s chest for one last cuddle. “I’ll text when I’m on my way down.”

“Okay,” Harry says, hugging him close. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, pressing closer.

Neither of them let go for a while, until Louis starts the feel the pressure of being on time and not being caught like this weighing down on him so heavily that he finally moves away, keeping his eyes firmly downcast as he pulls away and makes for the door. He doesn’t dare look back as he slips out into the hallway and just about runs for the lift, keeping himself perfectly intact until he gets back to his own room.

Something about the act of showering and throwing all of his things haphazardly back into his suitcase is rather numbing, which is more than welcome right now. Long after he’s physically ready to leave, but way before he’s emotionally prepared, there’s a quick knock on his door followed by his assistant’s voice shouting, “whenever you’re ready, rockstar!”

Louis picks himself up carefully, dragging his bags behind him out into the hallway. They’re immediately loaded onto the luggage cart someone’s produced from somewhere, and then everyone piles into the lift to go downstairs. Louis hits the button for the sixth floor, and he hopes no one will say anything, but of course his assistant turns to him, giving him an odd look.

“Wanna say goodbye to my mate,” Louis says, looking away. “I’ll meet you lot in the lobby in 5 minutes, tops.”

“Who is it?” his assistant asks, obnoxiously peppy for how emotionally drained Louis is at the moment. “Why was he at this show, of all shows?”

“Just,” Louis sighs, shrugging one shoulder. “Someone from another life.”

His assistant gives him another curious look, but she doesn’t press, thankfully, so when the elevator stops on the sixth floor, Louis gets out alone and purposefully walks in the wrong direction until he’s sure the elevator doors have closed.

He takes his time walking to Harry’s room, not really looking forward to actually saying goodbye. He knocks quietly on the door, turning his face into his own shoulder to hide a little from something, maybe the world altogether.

Harry opens the door in a flurry, towel tied around his waist, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. His hair is dripping, flopped over his wide eyes, and Louis can’t help but smile at the sight of him.

“You ‘int ‘ex,” Harry grumbles, moving aside to let Louis in.

“Pardon?” Louis asks, amused.

Harry huffs and steps into the bathroom, spitting noisily into the sink. “You didn’t text. You told me you’d text me before you came down.”

“Oh yeah,” Louis says, pushing door the closed and then going to plop down on the edge of the bed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, coming back with his mouth wiped clean to sit down beside him. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, eyes stuck on his own knees. “When are you leaving?”

“Dunno,” Harry says. “I had to pay for the extra night so that I didn’t have to check out this morning, so I might just get my money’s worth,” he shrugs.

“Oh,” Louis says. “It’s shit how they do that, huh?”

“Do what?” Harry frowns.

“Make you check out at 11,” Louis says. “Like, what if you’ve got something to do until 12, and you can’t take your bags? What then?”

“Well, usually they let you keep them behind the front desk in the lobby,” Harry says. “That’s what we do at the lodge, anyway. And they make you check out at 11 so they have time to clean the rooms. That’s what Gemma and I do, you know. Clean up and make the beds,” he says.

“Oh,” Louis says. “That’s cool.”

Harry hums, reaching out to squeeze Louis’s thigh. “Are they waiting for you?”

“In the lobby,” Louis says.

“Right,” Harry says. “So this is it?”

“This is it,” Louis says.

“Well,” Harry says.

“Well,” Louis says.

“This sucks,” Harry says. “I hate this.”

“I do, too,” Louis says, resisting the urge to lean into Harry, let himself be held, let himself just become so wrapped up in Harry’s warm skin that he sinks right into him, ceases to exist as his own entity at all.

“Maybe you should just, like, go,” Harry says. “I don’t wanna cry.”

“Okay,” Louis says, standing up slowly. “Well, um, bye.”

“Bye,” Harry whispers, his hand still touching Louis’s thigh, even as Louis steps away. Louis doesn’t dare look back, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, and nearly makes it all the way to the door.

“Wait!” Harry calls, scrambling after him. Louis turns around just as Harry collides with him, kissing him so hard he nearly knocks Louis off his feet. Louis clings to him, kissing back just as hard, until neither of them can breathe and they finally break apart. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, resting his forehead against Louis’s and breathing directly into Louis’s mouth. Louis takes what he can get, breathing in every molecule of Harry he can, squeezing Harry’s shoulders so hard he’s sure he’s leaving little fingerprint bruises. “Bye,” Harry breathes, but he doesn’t let go.

“Bye,” Louis says, but he doesn’t let go either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [you know the drill](http://suspendrs.tumblr.com/post/183786697358/suspendrs-the-act-of-making-noise-by-suspendrs)
> 
>  
> 
> (yes i do have ideas for a part three. yes you should stay tuned. no i'm not ready to let go of this verse.)


	3. Chapter 3

Summer is long and hot and lonely. Louis’s kinda tired of everything, but he’s especially tired of the heat, the way it presses down on him at his outdoor shows, even after the sun has set, even as the screams of his fans send shiver after shiver down his spine.

Europe is lovely, as always. Louis always likes the non-English speaking countries the best. The fans are the most committed here, they know every word of his songs despite most of them not even knowing the language. Something about it softens him right to his core, the thought that someone could understand absolutely nothing about him, and still love him as much as they do.

 _Superficial love_ , Harry’s voice echoes in Louis’s head sometimes, when he’s onstage in places like these, _it’s not real love, it’s just superficial._

Louis’s never known real love in his life, then, and he doesn’t exactly care to. There’s nothing sweeter than the caress of all these people shouting lovely things to him in languages he doesn’t speak. _Yeah, sex is cool_ , he thinks, twirling with his guitar in hand and hitting a particularly good chord, sending the audience into a frenzy, _but this is way cooler._

Everyone always says he turns into someone else when he steps onstage, someone more detached, less intense. Something about all the lights and the people just mellows him out, like the most addictive kind of drug. Maybe that’s why up here, when he’s intoxicated and tripping on attention, he fucking hates Harry, hates him and his goddamn face and his goddamn heart.

The second he says goodnight to the sweet poison in his veins, though, and steps down into the dark abyss of backstage, where hands reach for him in a much less loving manner and strip him of all his defenses, he feels himself come back into his body, like a crab moving back into a shell it has long grown out of. It feels wrong, and bad, too cramped and uncomfortable and all he wants is to be held, as he climbs back into his tour bus and sits alone in his dark bunk.

The worst part of all of it is that he hasn’t written anything good in weeks. He’s got fragments of lines and half-hearted melodies in untitled voice memos on his phone, but he hasn’t been this uninspired in years. With every passing day, every passing show, the promise of taking a break at the end of this all sounds better and better. He’s not tired of it, by any means; he’s just a little burnt out, and he’s way overdue for a little time to relax.

He’ll have a year, one whole year, 365 days of downtime with which to do whatever he pleases. He wants to spend at least a few months doing absolutely nothing, catching up on the things he never gets to do, like sleeping and spending time with his family. After that, he knows he’s going to be itching to get back to it, and hopefully by then some of his creativity will have regrown like vegetation after a wildfire, and he’ll pick up right where he left off.

He burrows himself under his duvet in the bus and pulls out his phone, scrolling through his notifications until he finds the ones he wants to find. It’s nearly midnight here in wherever he is now, but it’s the middle of a warm summer day back in Vermont. Harry doesn’t have as much work in the summer, since the lodge is closed from June until November. Louis had been so disappointed to learn that detail; he had a plan to book a room under a fake name when he was done with tour and surprise Harry, but he was quickly foiled by the lodge’s summer schedule.

It appears Harry found a livestream of his show tonight, because he’s got about twenty notifications from Harry, all either responding to comments he made onstage or telling him he was doing great. A few new messages pop up while Louis’s reading over Harry’s stream of consciousness from the past two hours, and the sight of them makes Louis remember, for what feels like the millionth time, why he doesn’t actually hate Harry at all.

_Dude Bro: The show has been over for like an hour now!! You better not have fallen asleep without texting me goodnight again you little bitch!!!!_

_Dude Bro: But if you are asleep that’s okay you went really hard out there tonight and I’m proud of you get some sleep_

_Dude Bro: But text me in the morning so I can yell at you!!! Sleep tight!!!!_

Louis grins, pressing his face into his pillow for a moment. He’s got it so fucking bad for this boy, god fucking dammit.

_Louis: i’m not asleep!!! just took a while leaving the venue because a bunch of fans wanted photos but i’m back on the bus now!!_

_Dude Bro: Oh good. Are you gonna go to sleep now?_

_Louis: thinking about it why_

_Dude Bro: Can I call?_

Louis calls him first, opting for a video chat even though it’s pitch black in his bunk. Harry answers on the second ring, his face filling the whole screen in a jumble of pixels.

“Hi,” Harry says, smiling wide. He’s got his phone angled so that Louis’s looking at him mostly from under his chin, making his mouth and nose look huge.

“Hi, big head,” Louis says quietly, fumbling for his headphones so that no one else on the bus will be able to hear Harry’s voice. “What are you up to?”

“Hiking,” Harry says, pulling the phone away from his face to reveal a bit of his background, which is mostly just trees and a few boulders. “I hiked up to the cell phone tower so I could sit and watch your show, since the reception at the lodge is so bad.”

“That’s, like, prehistoric,” Louis says. “Why don’t they build a tower closer to the lodge?”

“Disturbs the nature,” Harry shrugs, bringing his phone back down to his original terrible angle.

“Lame,” Louis says.

“I don’t mind the hike,” Harry says. “It’s really pretty up here on this side of the mountain, there’s a little brook and everything. I wanna bring you up here someday.”

“Sounds like exercise,” Louis says, pulling a face. “Pass.”

“Shut up, you’d love it!” Harry laughs. “It’s really beautiful, look,” he says, turning the camera around so Louis can see what he’s seeing.

It is quite beautiful; from that high up on the mountain, it seems like the entirety of Vermont is on display, little houses dotting the landscape and greenery extending into the horizon. Louis frowns, though, pulling his phone closer to him so that the light from the screen will illuminate his face. “Turn the camera around, I’m missing the view,” he says.

“I did turn the camera around,” Harry says, but he turns it again, revealing his own confused frown.

“There we go, much better,” Louis says, grinning when Harry catches on.

“You’re so cheesy,” Harry says, laughing brightly. “How much longer is tour, again?”

“Few more weeks,” Louis says. 

“I miss seeing your face in person,” Harry sighs. “Or at all. Why is it so dark?”

“I’m in my bunk,” Louis says, turning on the little lamp above his head so Harry can see him. “I don’t like to leave the light on because it gets really hot in here.”

“Turn it off, then,” Harry says. “You should get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to,” Louis says, getting even quieter. “I miss you.”

“I know,” Harry pouts. “I miss you too.”

“Tell me a story, or something,” Louis says, reaching up to turn the lamp off and snuggling up under his duvet, putting the phone down on the mattress beside his pillow and leaning it up against the wall so Harry will still be able to see his face, if he turns his brightness all the way up.

“Oh, mum told the funniest story at dinner last night,” Harry says, launching into a long, complicated tale of someone his mother met at the grocery store. Louis closes his eyes and just listens to Harry’s voice, smiling every now and again when Harry makes himself laugh particularly hard. He falls asleep like that, with Harry still rambling on his ear, and Harry must know that he’s asleep when he stops answering but he keeps talking anyway, inserting himself right into all of Louis’s dreams.

-

Tour ends on the highest high of Louis’s life, with two sold out shows in London to put a pretty little bow on top of everything. It’s fucking glorious, coming offstage and going straight home to his own house instead of sleeping on the bus or in some stuffy hotel. His break starts now, and he takes full advantage of it right off the bat with a fourteen hour long sleep the second he walks in the door.

He spends a little time with his family, a little time alone, and a lot of time ignoring the world at large. He’s deleted Twitter and Instagram off of his phone for the time being and the only texts and calls he’s answering at the moment are those from Harry, his close friends, and his family members, and he’s never felt more free.

Even when he’s not working, though, everything in London reminds him of work. Every time he steps out of his house he needs to be covered from head to toe or else he gets pestered all day long, which is endlessly exhausting. It makes his break feel like a lot less of a break, but he supposes he can’t really take a break from being Louis Tomlinson.

He can, however, take a break from London, which is exactly what he plans to do. He can’t book a flight directly from Heathrow to Burlington, Vermont, annoyingly, but he thinks the 18 hour journey with a brief layover in Philadelphia is worth it if he gets to see Harry at the end of it. He doesn’t know yet how long he’ll be staying in Vermont, but he thinks any amount of time would be worth it.

He leaves bright and early on a Monday morning to avoid as much traffic as possible in the airport, and somehow manages to get on the plane unseen. He sends Harry one last text before the plane takes off, and then he pops in his headphones and sleeps away the entire flight to Philadelphia. He has to spend a few hours in the airport in Philadelphia, which sucks, but he’s back on the plane after dinner, and he finally touches down in Vermont a little after 11pm. Harry’s waiting for him at baggage claim with a massive smile and open arms, and Louis walks straight into his chest and melts into him.

“Hi,” Harry says, holding him close and burying his face into Louis’s hair. “How was your flight?”

“Long,” Louis mumbles, breathing Harry in deep. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Harry says into his hair. “Are you hungry? You must be exhausted.”

Louis pulls away a little to assess, but Harry doesn’t let him go far. He thinks he’s mostly tricked the jet lag by sleeping on the flight this morning, and he ate at the airport in Philadelphia before he left, so he’s not terribly hungry, either. Harry seems antsy, though, like he’s eager to do something, and Louis frowns.

“Are you alright?” Louis asks, looking up at his face. “You’re acting weird.”

“You’re acting weird,” Harry says quickly, defensively.

“Uh,” Louis says, blinking once. “What?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, blushing. “I’m just excited to see you.”

“Well, let’s get out of here, then,” Louis says. “I need a shower, and about a gallon of water.”

With that, Harry takes him by the hand and all but drags him out of the airport, and then they’re on their way back to the lodge. Louis spends the whole drive staring out the window, trying to ignore the nervous energy Harry is radiating from the driver’s seat. 

Nothing about the drive is familiar, as badly as Louis wants it to be. He wants to think he knows each and every tree they drive past, that he’ll be able to know on sight the peak of the mountain that the lodge rests beneath, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t remember any of this. It makes him sad to think that Harry probably does know each of these trees intimately, and that Louis himself is just an outsider.

Even the lodge doesn’t look terribly familiar when they pull up in front of it. The only thing that makes Louis sure that they’re even at the right place is the little sign propped up above the front door that reads _Styles Lodge_ in a loopy, antique looking font.

Neither of them say much as they get out of the car, and Harry helps him lug his bags across the parking lot and inside. The lobby is dimly lit, but it feels so much more familiar, and Louis feels a rush of nostalgia wash over him.

“You’re staying in my room,” Harry says, nodding toward the corridor to the left of the front desk, where Louis remembers the sun room and the stairway to the private living quarters are. “I hope that’s okay. All the guest rooms are broken down for the off season.”

“Course that’s okay,” Louis frowns, following Harry down the corridor and up the stairs. Harry leads the way into his own bedroom and drops Louis’s duffel on his bed, flicking on the lights and then finally turning back to face Louis.

“The bathroom is down the hall,” Harry says, pointing through the doorway. “You said you wanted a shower.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, leaving his suitcase by the door and walking right up to Harry, so close their faces almost touch. Harry looks even more uneasy up close, and Louis reaches up to hold him around his shoulders and press a long, sweet kiss to his lips.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers right into Harry’s mouth, the way Harry does to him sometimes. Harry shivers, hugs him back, and kisses him a lot harder than Louis was expecting.

“I’m just nervous,” Harry whispers back, holding Louis too tight. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“So?” Louis says, pulling back a little to look up at him. 

“So,” Harry shrugs, looking down. “I don’t know.”

“What?” Louis asks. He’s getting frustrated now, and that only seems to make Harry even more nervous, because he blushes and tilts his head down a little more.

“You stopped mentioning me,” Harry says after another moment of hesitation. “You stopped dedicating songs to me.”

Louis blinks, watching Harry’s face for a long minute. “Harry, I’m so sorry, my band and my management were just so annoyed-”

“I know, I know, and I know it’s stupid that I’m upset about it,” Harry says, laughing bitterly. “But it just, like- I don’t know. You’re just really good at pretending.”

Louis flinches a little, pulling back. “What does that mean?”

“You’re good at pretending like there’s no one special in your life,” Harry says. “You’re good at acting like there’s no one you’re missing when you’re up there on that stage. Really good,” he says, getting quieter and quieter the longer he talks.

“Harry, we talked every day,” Louis says. “I told you every day how much I missed you.”

“I know!” Harry says, trying to pull him back in. Louis doesn’t budge, though, standing firm in case Harry has any more accusations to sling around. “I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.”

“Yeah, you are,” Louis says. “You think I didn’t miss you like crazy every single night since I left you in Boston?”

“No,” Harry says, scrambling to pull him close again. Louis still doesn’t move, so Harry moves himself, instead, pressing up against Louis’s chest. 

“Stop trying to fucking hug me and talk to me,” Louis says, pushing him away gently. Harry stumbles back like Louis punched him right in his face, though, looking shocked. “What exactly are you upset about right now?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, rubbing at his face.

“Well, figure it out, so we can fix it,” Louis says. “I didn’t fly all the way here and eat a cold cheeseburger in an airport in Philadelphia just to get here and fight with you.”

“Then let’s not fight,” Harry says, trying to catch Louis’s hand. “Let’s go to bed, please.”

“No,” Louis says. “See, now you’ve gone and offended me. I’m good at pretending? And, what, do you think I’m pretending now?”

“No,” Harry says, rushing to close his bedroom door as Louis’s voice gets a little higher. “Louis-”

“You think I’ve found someone who’ll fuck me and also put up with all the bullshit in my life and I’m just pretending I’m in love with you for, what, my health?” Louis says.

“Louis, please, my parents are right down the hall,” Harry pleads quietly. 

“Or, what, you think I’m pretending to be a good person just to get in your pants? You think I’m pretending that-”

“Will you shut up?” Harry says, voice twice as loud as Louis’s. If he was worried about waking his parents, he’s surely done it now. “No, it’s not any of that, okay? It’s that I don’t think I deserve you, I don’t think I’m good enough to have you, and every time you go out there and act like I’m right, I start to feel like you think I’m not good enough, too,” he says, voice still hard but a little bit quieter now. “I’m just- I’m scared to lose you, okay? I’ve never, like, done this, with anyone, and the thought of you breaking my heart just- it terrifies me,” he admits.

“Well, it’s a good job I’m not planning on breaking your stupid heart,” Louis says. He was going for tough, sassy, but it comes out soft and a little bit sad, and he quickly turns his eyes to the floor. “I wish you didn’t feel like that.”

“How can I not?” Harry asks, stepping close again to take Louis by the hips. Louis lets him, this time, lets Harry pull him as close as he wants. “How can I not feel like that when you’re everything, you’re _everything_ , all the talent and beauty and wonder in the world, and I’m just, like, me?”

Louis frowns, looking up at Harry’s face. “You can start by not acting like _just you_ is anything less than absolutely perfect in every way,” he says.

“You know what I mean,” Harry says quietly. “You travel the world, you’ve got millions of people who’d die for you everywhere you go, and I’m just some weirdo from Vermont who pretends to know how to play the guitar,” he says. “I’m just worried one day you’re gonna wake up and see what I see.”

“Remember when you said that this was stupid?” Louis asks, threading his fingers through the hair at the back of Harry’s head and scratching gently at his scalp. Harry nods, and Louis smiles. “You were right.”

Harry laughs, swooping down to press his face into Louis’s neck. “Told you,” he mumbles. “I guess I just psyched myself out while I was waiting for your plane to land. I, like, convinced myself that you were gonna get off the plane and want nothing to do with me, after all.”

Louis hums, pressing a little closer and tugging at Harry’s hair. “Well, let’s go to bed and I’ll prove you really, _really_ wrong, hm?”

Harry pulls away grinning, tugging Louis the three feet from where they’re standing to the bed and falling down on top of him. Louis’s quite glad he got so much sleep on the plane earlier, because they spend the rest of the night doing everything but sleeping until the sun begins to rise over the mountain outside.

-

Louis takes back every good thing he’s ever said about Harry in his life. Harry’s a goddamn mad man and he’s going to kill Louis, he’s is absolutely sure of it. He’s already half dead and, according to Harry, they’re not even there yet, and Louis’s probably got another mountain’s worth of pebbles in his left shoe and he just wants to _sit down_.

“It’s so beautiful out today, isn’t it?” Harry says over his shoulder, spreading his arms wide like every muscle in his stupid fucking body isn’t aching like Louis’s is. Harry doesn’t even sound out of breath in slightest, meanwhile Louis is huffing and puffing like the bloody big bad wolf, and Harry’s the one carrying both of their backpacks _and_ the tent.

“It’s- fucking- hot-” Louis pants, swiping his hand over his forehead and coming away with about a swimming pool’s worth of moisture. “Are we- almost-”

“Probably another ten minutes or so,” Harry says, glancing back at Louis. “Do you want to rest?”

“Yes,” Louis says, slamming himself down on the ground without another thought. Harry has the audacity to laugh as he sits down beside him, pulling the metal water bottle out of Louis’s backpack and uncapping it for him.

“This is the easiest hiking trail there is, you know,” Harry says, while Louis chokes down half the water bottle in one go. 

“I’m not fucking sleeping out here,” Louis says, swatting a bug away from his ear. “This is rank. I’ve never been this sweaty in my life.”

“Oh!” Harry squeals, completely ignoring him in favor of bending himself in half to look at something on the ground near Louis’s foot. Louis glares at him, taking another long pull from his water bottle. “Look, Louis, it’s a Northern Bluet. How pretty is he!” he says, pulling out his phone to snap a picture of whatever it is.

Louis looks quickly, and then looks a little harder when he doesn’t see anything on the first go. Finally he spots a little blue twig near his foot and he squints at it, confused as to why Harry’s so fascinated by it. Only then does he realize that the twig has got _wings_ and it is a _bug_ , and Louis scrambles away so fast nearly crushes the thing.

“Louis!” Harry gasps, shoving him over, as if he’s not already flat on the ground, and the dragonfly books it. “What the hell!”

“It startled me!” Louis says. “I’m sorry, I’m not a bug guy!”

“It’s a rare type of dragonfly!” Harry argues, as if that makes Louis’s reaction any less acceptable. 

“What the fuck ever,” Louis says, standing up from the ground and brushing the dirt off his shorts. “Right, let’s keep going so we can get this over with.”

“You didn’t have to agree to this, you know,” Harry says, leading the way further down the trail. 

Harry’s got a point; Louis asked this morning for Harry to show him something he enjoyed, something from his world, since Louis’s already shown him so much of his own world. Harry suggested they take one of his favorite trails a couple miles up the mountain to a campsite that no one really knows about and spend the night looking at the stars and talking by the fire. It had sounded romantic then, and not like grueling physical activity under the burning hot sun, which it has turned out to be.

They don’t talk much for the rest of the hike which, at least on Louis’s part, is to conserve what little oxygen he’s still getting to his brain, and eventually they make it to a clearing in the trees where Harry stops and starts putting his things down. 

“Are we here?” Louis asks, panting like an animal again even though they’ve only been walking for another ten minutes, tops. “Is this it?”

“This is it,” Harry says proudly, turning back to grin at him. “What do you think?”

“It’s,” Louis says, glancing around, “a lot of dirt.”

“You’re the worst,” Harry says. 

“Nice dirt, I’m sure!” Louis says. “Like, the nicest dirt I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, digging through his backpack for something. He comes away with a blanket rolled up small and he takes a moment to spread it out on the ground, plopping down and patting the empty space beside him. “Come sit.”

Louis trudges over, all but falling onto the blanket beside Harry. He’s still roasting hot, and they’re directly in the sun, and no matter how much he spreads himself out, his body won’t cool down.

“Can we go in the shade?” Louis asks, two seconds from crying in frustration at how sweaty he is, dirt clinging to every inch of exposed skin.

“The sun’s gonna set any minute, and then you’ll be wishing for it back. It gets really cold up here at night,” Harry says, looking annoyingly at ease where he’s sprawled out on the blanket, supporting himself with his elbows and tilting his head back in the sunshine. He’s a bit sweaty too, obviously, but nowhere even close to Louis, and somehow he doesn’t even look dirty, even though they’re literally sitting on a mound of soil. He looks like some sexy lumberjack dream, or something, with his gray t-shirt sticking to his abs and his little hiking shorts all ridden up his thighs. If Louis had even an ounce of energy left in his body, he’d roll over and suck Harry’s dick, or something, but as it is he can’t even muster up the strength to turn his head away from where the sun is beaming into his eyes.

Harry was right, though, and after a little while, the sun begins to set. Louis’s still terribly overheated and tired and cranky, but once the sunlight becomes a little less direct, he feels a lot less like a lobster in a boiling pot of water. 

“Look,” Harry says, pointing out at the horizon, which is turning colors like Louis’s never seen before. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, sitting up to watch it. “Are we gonna head back before it gets dark?”

“What?” Harry laughs, sitting up too. “No, Lou, we’re sleeping out here.”

Louis blinks, turning very, very slowly to face him. “We _are_?”

“That’s what camping is, love,” Harry says, pushing himself up and off of the blanket. “C’mon, help me set up the tent, and then we’ll gather some sticks and start a fire.”

Louis has so, _so_ many objections to that plan, but he swallows them all, because he can tell that this is important to Harry, and he doesn’t want to offend him. He gets up and does as Harry tells him, and within a few minutes they have a small, very thin looking tent set up near the center of the campground. Harry goes off to haul over some logs he keeps stashed in the woods and Louis does his best to find as many twigs and broken branches as he can, bringing them all over to the little circle of stones Harry is calling a firepit. 

By the time the sun has fully set, they’ve got a crackling fire, and Harry’s pulling something else out of his backpack. Louis pulls the blanket a little closer to the fire and sits down, keeping an eye on the darkened treeline surrounding him.

“I figured you wouldn’t be the roasted weenies type of camper, so I brought some frozen mac and cheese,” Harry says, pulling a little cardboard box out of the cooler he’s produced from the bottom of that Mary Poppins bag of his. He sets up a little wire rack over the fire and tears open the mac and cheese, setting it on top of the rack to warm up over the fire. He’s telling some story about how he learned this trick from a friend when he was a teenager, but Louis isn’t listening; he’s tuned in completely to any sounds coming from the woods, because he doesn’t want to be surprised if a bear or a murderer comes charging out at any point.

“Are you listening?” Harry asks, pulling the mac and cheese off of the fire and stirring it with a fork. 

“Yeah,” Louis lies, not even bothering to look in his direction. 

“Lou?” Harry asks, putting the food down and crawling a little closer. “Hey, are you okay?”

“It’s, like, really dark behind those trees,” Louis says. He’s still pretty warm from all the sunshine and exercise earlier, but he shivers now, still staring into the woods.

“We’re safe, I promise,” Harry says. “I’ve never seen a bear here, ever, and I’ve camped in this spot every single summer since we moved here.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Louis says, jumping when Harry moves closer and leans into him.

“Here,” Harry says, handing him a fork. “You should eat after that hike today.”

Louis takes the fork and shoves a few bites of pasta in his mouth, religiously staring at the trees the entire time. 

“Chill,” Harry breathes into his ear, sending another round of shivers down his spine. Louis feels Harry settle a hand on the inside of his thigh, but he doesn’t react until Harry’s worked his way almost to his crotch, and something cracks behind the treeline. 

“What was that,” Louis hisses, slapping Harry’s hand away and all but climbing into his lap. “Harry-”

“Fucking hell,” Harry mutters, petting Louis’s hair gently to calm him down. “It’s alright, it’s nothing. Probably just a squirrel, or a bird.”

“Big ass fucking squirrel,” Louis says. “If we fucking die out here tonight I’m gonna come back to life just to revive you and kill you myself.”

Harry laughs, hugging Louis close to his body and maneuvering their bodies around until Louis’s back is to Harry’s chest and Harry’s lying flat on the ground with Louis between his legs, Louis’s head resting on his stomach.

It’s then that Louis notices the stars, sprinkled across the sky like a million pinpricks of dazzling light. Louis’s seen the stars before, sure, but never like this, never so clearly, never so closely. He feels like he’s right up with them in the sky, even though they’re not even halfway up the mountain, and it steals all of the breath out of his lungs and all the thoughts out of his brain.

“Woah,” he says, eyes stuck on the sky.

“I knew you’d like that,” Harry says, burying one hand in Louis’s hair and scratching mindlessly over his scalp.

It does get quite cold here at night, Louis realizes, but the fire stays strong for a few hours, and between that and the heat of Harry’s body under him, he never gets cold. He’s beyond comfortable, even though he still feels like he’s coated in a layer of dirt glued down by his own dried sweat and his whole body is aching from the hike, but the clear night sky is so incredibly beautiful he quite literally never wants to move. Harry makes a perfect pillow, and before long Louis feels his eyelids start to droop, Harry’s fingers still rubbing slow circles over his head.

He’s helpless to a head massage, and before long he’s fast asleep on top of Harry and beneath the stars.

He only wakes up a little while later as he’s being dragged over the ground on top of the blanket like a sack of potatoes, and he scrambles to sit up and fight whatever’s dragging him off to make a meal out of him.

“Relax, it’s me,” Harry says, looking sheepish when Louis looks up at him. “Sorry, I didn’t know how to get you into the tent without waking you. I couldn’t lift you and carry you in without taking the whole tent down.”

“It’s okay,” Louis mumbles, picking himself up off the ground slowly. Harry helps him into the tent and follows him inside, where he’s somehow already spread out two sleeping bags.

Louis climbs into one of them and rolls onto his stomach, trying to get comfortable on the ground. He keeps nudging and bumping Harry in the process, but the tent is almost two small for the two of them, and he really can’t help it.

“Louis, settle,” Harry says, like he’s talking to a dog, or a small child.

“I’m trying!” Louis whines. “I’m not used to sleeping on the ground like a bloody animal.”

“Christ, come here,” Harry says, worming his arms out of his sleeping back and reaching for Louis.

Louis takes the invitation cordially, climbing out of his sleeping bag and squishing himself right into Harry’s. “No, that’s not what I meant,” Harry argues, but Louis’s already halfway inside, and he’s not turning back now. 

If the tent isn’t really big enough for the two of them, the sleeping bag _definitely_ isn’t, but Louis couldn’t care less. He settles down directly on top of Harry, head on his chest, and falls asleep without another thought to the fact that they’re in the middle of the woods and that Louis hates everything about this scenario. Remarkably, Harry doesn’t kick him out of the sleeping bag in the middle of the night; instead, he just wraps his arms low around Louis’s waist and holds him, and they both sleep soundly until late the next morning.

-

With it all settled and agreed upon that Louis never wants to hike again, he and Harry find a nice middle ground in the second best thing to the actual outdoors: the sun room.

Something about all the natural light and the view of the mountainside makes Louis so, so happy, he can’t even explain it. He always thought all that ‘happy place’ bullshit was fake, but this, curled up on the sofa between Harry’s legs with his notebook in his lap, might just be his happy place.

Harry’s family has left them alone, for the most part; his sister is out of the country for some kind of retreat to write about for her blog, and Harry’s parents are busy most of the time doing guided hikes up and down the mountain for tourists, which sometimes are up to three days long. It gives Louis and Harry a lot of free time alone in the lodge, which sounds rather suggestive for what they usually end up doing.

“What rhymes with home?” Louis asks, tapping his pen against the page he’s writing on. 

“Uh,” Harry says, hooking his chin over Louis’s shoulder to steal a glance at what he’s written. “Gnome? Comb?”

“I regret asking,” Louis sighs.

“Foam!” Harry says, like he thinks he’s being helpful. “Rome?”

“You’ve got that whole, massive head, and it’s just filled with hot air,” Louis says, reaching back to tap his pen gently off Harry’s head. 

“Alone,” Harry says, and when Louis glances back, Harry’s got his eyes glued to the page. “I’ll make this feel like home, so you never feel alone?”

Louis pauses, staring at the page for a moment, as well. He hums quietly to himself, crossing some things out and rearranging the words, until finally he clicks his pen shut. “You will never feel like you’re alone, I’ll make this feel like home.”

“I love that,” Harry says, squeezing Louis a little where his arms are wrapped around his waist. “What’s it about?”

“You,” Louis says. “And this place. I’m so out of my depth, I’m a city boy, a big time rockstar, and yet you manage to make this little ski lodge feel like home to me,” he says, shifting a bit to sit lower against Harry’s chest, tipping his head back to look at him upside down.

“I make you feel like that?” Harry asks, grinning so hard his dimple carves his cheek out like a cavern. “Like you’re not alone? Like you’re at home?” he asks, quoting the lyrics.

Louis just hums, pursing his lips for a kiss. Harry delivers, hunching down to press a sweet upside down kiss to Louis’s lips.

“Will you sing it for me?” Harry asks, looking back at the notebook in Louis’s hands. “What you have so far, at least?”

“It doesn’t have a melody yet,” Louis says, blushing a little. “I don’t know-”

“Make one up,” Harry says. “C’mon, rockstar, that’s your job.”

“I’m on break,” Louis says, slapping the book shut.

“C’mon,” Harry whines, mouthing at the side of Louis’s neck. “I’ll pay for it.”

“You’ll pay?” Louis laughs, squirming away from him. 

“Mhm,” Harry says, grabbing both of Louis’s wrists and pinning his arms to his own chest to keep him still while he kisses behind his ear. “Do you accept sexual favors as payment?”

“Stop,” Louis giggles, trying his hardest to break out of Harry’s grip. “That tickles, Harry!”

“Sing for me,” Harry breathes, holding him tighter and sucking a mark at the edge of his jaw. Louis moans, going lax in Harry’s arms, and Harry chuckles against his ear. “Not what I meant,” he says, intentionally breathy, sending goosebumps erupting all over Louis’s skin.

Louis just grins, and Harry scoffs, pulling a quick maneuver so that Louis ends up flat on his back on the sofa with Harry straddling his hips, still holding his wrists down. Louis screws his lips shut just in time for Harry to start tickling him with his free hands, drilling his fingers into his stomach and sides.

“Sing, and I’ll stop!” Harry says, laughing along as Louis dissolves like hot sugar beneath him. 

“Okay, okay!” Louis gasps out finally, and Harry relents. “Get off me, you ogre, can’t sing with you crushing my diaphragm like that.”

Harry scrambles off of him quickly, perching himself at the opposite side of the sofa. Louis sits up, flipping through the pages of his notebook for a moment to distract Harry, and then gets up and books it out of the room.

“Hey!” Harry shouts, coming after him instantly. Louis laughs loudly, darting through the lobby and down to the corridor where the guest rooms are, and to his absolute delight, he finds that all of the doors are ajar. He glances back to make sure Harry isn’t right behind him before he ducks into one of the rooms, leaving the door identical to the others and diving onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed.

“No fair!” Harry whines from the corridor. “Where’d you go?”

Louis doesn’t say anything, peeking over the edge of the bed to watch Harry as he goes right past the door without even glancing in. Louis makes his break once he’s sure Harry’s well past the room, laughing gleefully as he darts back down the hallway and through the lobby.

Harry’s hot on his tail, somehow, so Louis steals away into the dining room, weaving between tables and chairs while Harry shouts for him to stop. Eventually, Harry corners him against the wall, and Louis keeps laughing even while Harry tries to kiss him quiet.

“You’re a menace,” Harry says, staying an inch from Louis’s face even when he breaks the kiss. “An absolute menace.”

“I’ll play the song for you someday,” Louis says, pecking one more kiss to Harry’s lips. “When it’s finished.”

“What, at our wedding?” Harry blurts out. He’s joking, obviously, but he goes scarlet as soon as he’s said it, and Louis blinks in surprise.

“Our wedding?” Louis says. “You wanna marry me?”

“What?” Harry says quickly. “Um-”

“Oh my god, do you want to marry me?” Louis asks, flattening himself against the wall.

“No,” Harry scoffs, going even redder. “I mean- well, not right now-”

“Are we-” Louis stutters, feels himself blush as well. “Are we even dating? Like, are you-”

“Aren’t we?” Harry says, frowning. “I thought we-”

“Boyfriends?” Louis says, stomach turning uneasily. “Are we boyfriends?”

“Maybe,” Harry says, suddenly very still, very serious. “I don’t know. Are we?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “Do you want to be?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I mean- well, yeah. Do you?”

“I don’t,” Louis stutters again, frowning over Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t know, I- I’ve never-” He trails off, heart pounding in his chest.

“I’ve, like, thought about this moment a lot,” Harry admits quietly. “Thought about asking. And that’s exactly the answer I was scared you were going to give me.”

“That’s, like, _so_ dramatic,” Louis says. “I don’t know. Do we really need a label?”

Harry blinks, looking down and stepping away a bit. “Maybe not.”

“Hey, no,” Louis says, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t get all mopey and gay on me right now.”

“But I am mopey and gay,” Harry pouts. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

Louis pauses for a moment, staring at Harry’s chest. “Oh. That’s- um.”

“What?” Harry asks, inching closer again.

“Scary,” Louis says, closing his eyes so Harry will stop trying to meet them.

“Why?” Harry asks, without skipping a beat.

“It’s-” Louis huffs, opening his eyes just to glare at his shoes. “I don’t know.”

“Because you still think you’re not allowed?” Harry says, swinging his hand forward just to brush his knuckles against Louis’s. “I thought you were on break?”

“I am,” Louis says, finally looking up at Harry’s face. “I’m on break. But homophobia never rests.”

Harry chuckles sadly, ducking in to kiss Louis’s lips sweetly. “No, it doesn’t,” he whispers. “Especially not when it lives inside you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Louis asks, and it’s supposed to come out harsh and biting, but it just comes out sad and scared.

“Call me your boyfriend,” Harry says, tilting his chin up. “Go on, do it.”

“Why?” Louis says, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. 

“Just try it,” Harry says, nudging him gently. “See how it feels.”

Louis blinks, clenching his jaw.

“Say it,” Harry urges, nudging him again. “Say, ‘you’re my boyfriend,’ say ‘my boyfriend, Harry,’ say ‘my name’s Louis and I have a boyfriend.’”

“I-” Louis chokes out, blushing hard. “Stop. Why is this so hard?”

“Because you’ve been taught to think that this is something you should be scared of,” Harry says, pulling away and clasping his hands together behind his back, like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out to touch Louis. “And I don’t think I can make you unlearn that. I think you have to do that yourself.”

Louis could cry; that sounds hard, and he doesn’t like the notion that he has to do it himself. He thinks Harry’s right, in a way, probably in a lot of ways, and he hates that not only is he in this situation himself, but that he’s pulled another person into this tangle of thorns.

Harry just looks sadder and sadder by the moment, as if he thinks Louis’s introspective pause is him planning his getaway instead of him trying to figure out how to make his body move to wrap Harry up in his arms and reassure him. He isn’t sure what he’s reassuring him of, at the moment, but he knows that he’s making Harry sad right now, and he’ll do anything to make it stop.

He steps forward slowly, until his toes butt up against Harry’s. Harry doesn’t move a muscle, standing perfectly still like a training dummy, so Louis can try and teach himself how to love him. Louis grits his teeth and reaches up, touching Harry’s face to make sure he’s real, dragging his thumb over his lips and then down to his throat, wrapping his fingers around it loosely just to feel Harry’s pulse quicken against his fingertips. He drapes his arms over Harry’s shoulders next, stands up on his toes to nudge his nose against Harry’s, and then kisses him sweetly. 

Harry holds him like a reflex, arms coming to rest loosely around the dip of Louis’s waist. Louis kisses him a little longer and then breaks away, pressing his face into Harry’s neck and hugging him tight. Harry holds him a little tighter in return, resting his cheek against the side of Louis’s head.

“Boyfriend,” Louis whispers, testing the word in his mouth. “You’re my boyfriend. My boyfriend, Harry. My name’s Louis and I have a boyfriend,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I love you,” Harry says, pressing it right into Louis’s hair. “Sorry. I know we’re taking baby steps and I just fucking dove off the deep end but I do, I really do.”

Louis breathes out harshly into Harry’s neck, forcing himself not to panic, not to run. It feels good, really good, to be loved by Harry, and he’s spent years running from the things that make him good. Performing, making music, that feels good in the most fleeting way, but this he can keep, he can hold it and treasure it and keep it all to himself, and the feeling washes over him in the form of mind numbing relief.

Harry says it again, pressing it into Louis’s cheekbone this time, and then once more into the curve of his jaw. Louis picks his head up and kisses the rest of it right out of his mouth, swallowing it down like a sweet wine.

“Totally okay that you’re not saying it back, by the way,” Harry murmurs into his mouth. “That’s really cool. I’m, like, super enjoying that.”

Louis laughs, breaking away from the kiss and pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. “Listen, I just learned how to say the word boyfriend, okay?”

“I know,” Harry says, hugging him tight. “I’m just kidding.”

Louis looks up at him, reaching up to cup Harry’s face in his hands. Harry grins a dorky grin and Louis laughs again, taking a moment just to look at him.

“Wanna know something crazy?” Louis asks, hands dropping to Harry’s shoulders. Harry raises his eyebrows, so Louis grins and releases all the air in his lungs. “I think I love you, too.”

Harry blinks, looking utterly shocked. “You’re not just saying that because I said it, right?” Harry asks, holding Louis’s hips so hard it almost hurts.

“No, I definitely mean it,” Louis says. “It’ll probably hit me later and I’ve an absolute breakdown about it then, but,” he shrugs.

“Oh, cool, can’t wait,” Harry says, tugging Louis impossibly closer and kissing him hard. “Hey, we had our first kiss in here too, remember?”

“We met in here,” Louis says, glancing over at the corner of the dining room, where Harry’s stool and guitar are still set up. “There was this cute guy in a jumper way too big for him playing guitar with really terrible form, and at the end of the day I was just a hopeless, helpless gay in a really, really small ski lodge,” he says.

“Imagine my luck when the hot guy at the table full of weird angry Londoners got up and comes over to chat to me,” Harry says. “It’s a wonder I didn’t drop my fucking guitar.”

“And now look at us,” Louis says, hugging Harry around the waist so he can keep looking at him. “A couple of boyfriends, in love.”

“That’s the title of your next hit single, right there,” Harry jokes, kissing his lips quickly. “Which I’m sure you’ll play for me, right after you play me the song from earlier,” he says, narrowing his eyes at Louis.

Louis considers his options briefly, and then takes off again, darting past Harry and right out of the dining room. They spend the rest of the afternoon like that, chasing each other in and out and around the lodge, laughing into each other’s mouths every time they catch each other. Louis’s only been at the lodge for a few days, but he’s absolutely sure it’s his favorite place on Earth, as of today, and he’d be quite content to never leave it.

-

Before anyone can blink, Louis’s been at the lodge for the better part of a month. Harry has a few commitments to keep up with; he spends a few weekends hiking and camping with his parents on their guided tours, and a couple days here and there taking groups of tourists up the mountain in the gondola, or hiking around the opposite side of the mountain to the lake. It’s his job, and Louis doesn’t mind it that much, anyway. Louis spends most of his time while Harry’s away cooped up in the sun room, or out on the little private patio behind the lounge, writing music.

Part of this break he planned for himself was taking time off from writing, but something about being here inspires more lyrics than he knew he had inside of him. In the time he’s been at the lodge, he’s written nearly an entire album’s worth of songs, and they’re all _good_. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s written something he thought was good right off the bat, but here he is, with his notebook nearly full to the brim by now of things he can’t wait to get back into the studio with.

Maybe taking a break isn’t going to be as easy as he originally thought it would be. It only takes a little time off to remind him how much he fucking loves what he does, and the thought of spending another eleven months like this has Louis almost as exhausted as he was before the break. 

The one thing that Louis doesn’t miss at all, though, is his manager and the rest of his team. He hasn’t checked his phone in weeks, other than to talk to his family every now and again, and he’s really enjoying the freedom of not having someone dictate his every move, every breath. The thing that’s keeping him here, as opposed to getting back into the studio and back on tour, is the thought of having to deal with all of that again. Here, he’s no one. He’s just a guy with a notebook and Harry’s guitar, and here, that’s okay. The second he leaves here, he resumes his quasi-life as Louis Tomlinson, more object than human, less emotion than monetary value. 

It’s September now, which means the summer is just about over, and soon the whole mountain will turn a million shades of orange, yellow and red. Louis’s so excited to see it, to experience a real autumn outside of the city. He and Harry haven’t discussed how much longer Louis’s going to stay here, but Louis’s hoping he’ll be able to stay at least until the end of the off season, maybe even longer, if they can find a way to keep him hidden from the lodge guests.

It’s Sunday, and Louis’s been in bed all morning, curled up under Harry’s sheets and gazing around the room, memorizing the sight of all of Harry’s things. Harry’s out on one of his weekend trips with his parents and a bunch of tourists, and he should be back within the next few hours, but Louis’s perfectly content with staying in bed until then.

Harry’s room is so cozy, so beautifully decorated, even though it’s his childhood room. It’s quite rustic, like the rest of the lodge, with dark wood everything and a sloped roof, strips of soft white fairy lights hanging from the beams across the ceiling. It’s on the corner at the back of the lodge, so there’s a good amount of windows that the light pours through, and Harry’s gauzy drapes make the whole room glow soft and bright. He’s got little knick knacks everywhere, photos and posters and awards from school and from skiing, ribbons from boy scouts, all the evidence of a life well lived. Louis almost envies him, in that regard; he wonders sometimes what it would be like if he had lived a normal life, hadn’t signed himself away at 16 to spend the rest of his life as a spectacle for the world. He supposes he’ll never know, and that’s just something he’ll have to live with, and at least he has Harry to give him that little semblance of normalcy he’s always been craving in the back of his mind.

Harry comes in a little while later, bumbling up the stairs with all of his things. Louis can hear him from the moment he enters the lodge, and can smell him almost as soon, too, the scent of dirt and dried sweat and the fresh air he loves so much.

“Hey,” Harry says, nudging the bedroom door open with his shoulder and kicking it shut behind himself. “You’re still in bed? It’s, like, 2pm.”

“I’m having a lazy day,” Louis says, rolling over onto his back and stretching out languidly. “Come cuddle me.”

“I need a shower,” Harry says, dropping his backpack by the door and kicking his shoes off. “It was _hot_ up there this weekend. One last proper summer weekend, I guess.”

“It was hot down here, as well,” Louis says, watching openly as Harry strips out of his clothes. It is quite disgusting, he thinks, that he can see the dirt on Harry’s skin like tan lines between the top of his socks and the bottom of his shorts, but he’s grown used to Harry’s penchant for being filthy. “I spent all day on Saturday in the garden, and last night I slept with all the windows open. The birds woke me up with all their screaming, but it was nice to feel the breeze,” he says.

“Birds don’t scream, they sing,” Harry laughs, rolling his eyes. “What else did you do while I was gone? Just laze about like a cat?”

“Pretty much,” Louis shrugs. “I finished a couple songs, recorded a few demos on my laptop, but nothing substantial. My muse was gone,” he says, pouting playfully.

“Well, you’ve got me all to yourself for the rest of the week,” Harry says, padding over once he’s stripped naked to press a tiny kiss to the tip of Louis’s nose.

“You fucking _stink_ ,” Louis says, batting him away. “Please, go shower.”

Harry laughs, stealing one more kiss before he grabs his towel off the back of the door and darts across the hallway to the bathroom. Louis watches him go, grinning like an idiot, like a ridiculous, lovesick idiot.

He doesn’t move for a little while, caught up in his thoughts. He can hear Harry singing loudly in the shower across the hall, and the sound of it makes him smile so hard he even disgusts himself. This is it, he thinks, as he lays there in Harry’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. This is the thing he’s always been needing, the thing that makes everything else worthwhile. He’s finally found a way to have it all; he can go out and make all the noise he wants, and now he has a place to come back to to hide from it all, and a boy to hide away with. Maybe it won’t be able to go on forever like this, but as a shower-warm, sunshine-soft Harry comes back into the bedroom and climbs under the covers with Louis, resting his wet, curly head on Louis’s chest and curling up small beside him, Louis doesn’t need a single thing more.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked the fic, you can reblog it [here](http://suspendrs.tumblr.com/post/183622706148/the-act-of-making-noise-by-suspendrs-10k-oh) :)
> 
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> [faq](http://suspendrs-fics.tumblr.com/faq)


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